


Elegance and Expertise

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Deepthroating, Dom!Bond, Fluff, Heavy Petting, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rimming, Sub!Q, hooker!bond, porn with a little plot, virgin!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m more concerned with the unhealthy amount of time you spend with the contents of your beside table, Q”</p><p>“So does a vast majority of the population,” Q says, peering at her over his glasses. “And I don't spend an ‘unhealthy amount of time’, Moneypants. It's only your sense of proprietary speaking.”</p><p>“One of these days i swear, you’ll wank your dick dry”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elegance and Expertise

**Author's Note:**

> Partly derived the idea from this post I made: http://myskittlesexploded.tumblr.com/post/141416734904  
> In which Q is fresh out of uni and a hacker, still with his virginity very much intact. So instead of trying for a drunken fumble in the back alley of a bar, he settles on hiring a male escort: James Bond.  
> Thank you so much to the lovely [rad_ddin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rad_ddin) for beta-ing!

Q's not exactly looking for trouble.

What he's looking for is a particular company that serves a clientele with select tastes. One that he shares. 

He's resolved to start looking for options after one too many nights of just his wrist and the videos from his three terabyte porn collection as company, and one memorable occasion when Eve walked in on him breaking in his new toys. 

“Q, dear, you work too much, you never go out, and I haven't seen you go out with somebody since, well, ever.”

Q hums, engrossed as he is looking at websites on his laptop that provides high end escorts. “I am perfectly fine Moneypants, thank you. It's just the hazards of being committed to the job. Government sites don't just hack themselves, you know.”

Eve made a soft “pah” as she wanders to where he is sitting. “I’m more concerned with the unhealthy amount of time you spend with the contents of your beside table, Q”

“So does a vast majority of the population,” Q says, peering at her over his glasses. “And I don't spend an ‘unhealthy amount of time’, Moneypants. It's only your sense of proprietary speaking.”

“One of these days I swear, you’ll wank your dick dry”

“Not possible. I'm young, virile, and have a slight carpal tunnel in my wrist. Would be fun to see if that's possible, though.”

Eve rolls her eyes, pushing over the tangle of wires and situating herself next to him. Craning her neck to glance at the screen, she makes a noise of approval. “At least you have good taste. Ooh, how about that one?” Eve points to a burly man that seemed like he could strangle both of Q’s cats, in one arm.

Q squints and wrinkles his nose. “No, too muscly. I'd like to be ravished, not suffocate in those arms.”

Eve laughs. “Ravished! God, Q, you really are an old person in a young man's body, aren't you.” She points to another one, flapping her hand at his arm impatiently. “That one.”

Q moves his cursor over the icon of the man, enlarging his picture. He's draped across an armchair, shirt half opened, all leonine grace. Even from the slightly blurry picture, it's clear that he has a well built body, lightly accentuated by his fitted clothes. His eyes are a muted blue in the dim lighting, but Q could imagine how it would shine under the proper light. 

Q could feel his stomach clench in desire when he reads the description. His name is James Bond, he's 5’8, and he specialises in BDSM, as a Dom. Perfect. 

He clicks on the picture, scanning the page for details. “Good eye, Moneypants. He's a catch.” The site has a choice of sending the escort over to his house. Q hesitates, a little reluctant at having strangers over to his shabby flat, but then again, it's not like he's inviting a guest over for tea. Shrugging, he puts down his address and settles the payment as a grinning Eve looks on. 

A screen pops up, informing him of the successful appointment, and Q powers down his laptop, pushing it aside to stretch. Eve bounced up and went to the kitchen to fetch a bottle and two glasses. Pouring a finger each of his finest scotch, she hands one over to him, raising her glass in a toast. “To losing your virginity.”

“To losing my virginity.” Q echoes, savoring the burn as he sips, feeling excitement fire its way through his veins. He feels oddly lost and so very out of control, for once. It feels good to be the one handing over the reins, and not for the first time, he catches himself hoping that it would be all worth it.

***

Bond stares at the peeling paint of the door before him, glancing down at the paper in his hand to check the address. A client in the shabbier part of town, a first timer. Bond would wager that he's a forty-something who spent his life pushing aside his homosexual tendencies with a taste of something more than vanilla, and then turns around and regrets not doing so when he turns old and ugly. Not the first time Bond's been through this; not the most pleasant either. But it pays the rent, so what the hell.

“He's after your expertise,” M had said as she handed him the address. “Impress him, and he might even become a regular.”

Bond accepts the assignment with a “Ma’am” and a nod, striding from her office to prepare. 

Four hours and a wrong turn later, he's at the door of his client, mask smoothly in place, body lax and ready, mindset sliding into place. It's not hard, after years in the profession, and first timers are easier than most.

He knocks, frowning as he hears solenoid locks disengaging, wondering how someone in a dump like this could splurge on high end security. Then the door swings open, and Bond's jaw drops.

Because the man, or boy, is the furthest thing from what he imagined. Delicately built, with pretty green eyes, lovely sharp cheekbones, and hair made for grabbing, he's bundled in a dowdy cardigan and pajamas pants, a stark contrast to Bond's tight shirt and practically painted on jeans. His old fashioned clothing only served to make him look younger, but Bond knows, when he meets the boy's bright, steady, unwavering gaze, that he could very well hold the secret to the universe. 

“Ah, Mr Bond, is it? Welcome.” The boy, no, man, holds out his hand, which Bond shook dazedly, noting the firm, slightly tilted up palm. “You may call me Q.” 

He motions Bond into the flat, throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder as Bond shivers from the chill. Skin tight clothing might be designed to show off his best assets, but they always leave him freezing. “I'm sorry about the cold, Mr Bond. I work with computers, and they're better off with the low temperature.”

Bond smiles at Q, already shifting back into his headspace. “I completely understand. Shall we sit somewhere to discuss our terms?”

“Terms?” A flicker of confusion passes Q's face, momentarily revealing someone much younger. Bond could feel his instinctive urge to reach out to draw the man close to him, even as he calms himself. Soon, he reassures himself as he explains to Q what he meant. “It’d be best to discuss and negotiate what you like and what you don't. Your limits, your kinks, and most importantly, your safe word.”

Q nods and thinks for a moment. “Trojan,” he says. “My safeword is ‘Trojan'. Bedroom then? For the discussion of, ah, terms?”

“Of course,” Bond says smoothly, daring to put his hand at the small of Q’s back, counting it as a slight victory as the man melts a little. “Lead the way.”

Q’s bedroom is small and neat, warmer than the living room and the only thing in the entire flat with no electronics, save for an alarm clock. Q sits primly in the middle, cross legged and rigid, fingers moving, always moving, touching and twisting the sleeve of his cardigan. Bond perches himself at the far end, spreading his fingers through the plush fabric and expensive mattress. Q obviously takes care of himself well, despite where he lives.

Noticing Q staring at him hawkishly, he puts on his most comforting smile. “Relax.”

Surprisingly, Q heeds his words, taking a deep breath and loosening the tight squaring of his shoulders. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he says apologetically. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Never?” Bond probes, even though he had already been informed of this earlier. “Not even experimentation?”

“Oh,” Q perks up, waving his hand towards one of the bed side drawers. There’s a delicacy about him, a strangely fragile nuance to his movements as he twists himself, strangely breakable yet with a core of steel. Bond cannot wait to coax out every gasp of desire and curl of limbs. “I do have toys that I satisfy myself with. Work has always been my main concern, and I was never really interested in finding a long term partner who shares my sexual inclination; too time consuming and taxing. Besides, I’ve never really found one who could hold their conversation as well as they can hold their liquor.”

Bond laughs softly, slowly pushing himself closer to the center of the bed, watching as Q slowly unfurls his limbs and tip his body as Bond’s weight depressed the mattress. He is careful to keep distance between them, mindful of the conversation they are about to have. “Demanding little one, aren’t you.”

Q sniffs, tilting his chin haughtily. “What can I say, I do have standards after all.”

“Standards.” Bond glanced theatrically down at his body. “I’m glad I’ve passed the high bar you set, enough for you to hire me.”

Q’s face flushes a little at that, a slow blooming red dotting his cheeks and nose. “Ah, but it remains to be seen if you could keep your head on during a debate on Miltonian philosophy, Mr Bond.”

This time, Bond does laugh out loud. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Q smiles, eyes glittering with mirth. “And now I trust that I must have cleared that high bar of yours too, to have made you laugh.”

Bond shrugs. “Maybe. Probably. Most definitely.” He reaches out, capturing one of Q’s wrist, which still fiddling with his cardigan’s sleeve. He strokes the soft underside of the wrist, strong, firm swipes, and Q’s breath stutters. “What are your conditions?”

“No scarification,” Q says immediately, voice strong and steady despite the distracting touch, and Bond, despite all of his professionalism, is grateful for Q not being another breathy, porn-star noise worthy client. At least Q could be relied upon to be rational. “No excrement or watersports. And no extreme pain.”

“I see,” Bond hums, concentrating on Q’s words as he traces the blue veins down the length of Q’s arm. “What are your thoughts on spanking and clamping then?”

“It’s hard to try out the former when you’ve only have your right hand for company,” Q says drily. “Although I’m not adversed to the idea. I’m not very sure about clamping, though. Could we start slow?”

“Of course,” Bond says, without hesitation. “Anything you like.” He moves his fingers down the hand, circling the soft palm. “And speaking of likes, what are you fond of? If it’s your first time, we could always explore that.”

“I like,” And here, Q hesitates, breaking eye contact and tucking in his chin, staring uncertainly at Bond’s fingers caressing his palm. “I like you touching me. It feels good. Safe. Nice.”

Bond smiles at that, taking the chance to massage each finger slowly. The smooth skin catches a little on the callouses of his palm, and Bond soaks in the sensation. “I see that a mere touch have rendered the little genius speechless,” he teases.

Q scowls playfully, some of his guardedness melting away. “Not speechless,” he corrects. “And not little.”

“Not little at all,” Bond confirms. “Anything else you like?”

Q nods, closing his eyes and luxuriating in the hand massage. “I like handing over control to someone. Someone who knows what they’re doing, who can take the reigns and be at their mercy. I like submitting.”

Q doesn’t hear Bond move as much as feel him. One moment, they were practically two bodies apart, and the next, there was barely an inch between them. Q could feel him everywhere, from the heat radiating from his body, to the strong arm curled around his waist, to the mouth pressed against his ear. “I can work with that,” Bond murmurs, hot breath puffing warmly and low baritone sending shivers down Q’s spine. “One condition, Q. You call me ‘sir’ throughout. Understood?”

Q tilts his head, eyes still closed, and rubs his cheek against the stubble on Bond’s chin. His mind is dizzy with the magnetic presence of the man next to him, and the thought of letting Bond take charge makes his blood flee his brain, pooling down further south. “Understood.”

The sharp nip to his earlobe is entirely unexpected, and Q gives a soft gasp. “You seem to be forgetting something.” The vibration of Bond’s voice makes his heart rate rise. “Understood…?”

Q swallows. “Understood, sir.”

Bond hums his assent, planting a kiss at the back of Q’s ear, a spot which Q would never have thought could be an erogenous zone. He nuzzles, ever so lightly, and Q goes right back to worrying his sleeves, this time in anticipation. “Good boy.”

Oh, Q thinks. I like that. Bond must have noticed, for he pressed another kiss, murmuring the phrase again.

Then suddenly, he pulls away, the cold air and negative space rushing to meet Q, leaving him bereft. He makes a small, heartbroken noise, opening his eyes to seek Bond, only to find him already standing at the foot of his bed. His stance is deliberately casual, but Q could see how the pupils have already eaten away the iris, leaving it nearly black with desire. 

“Strip.” Bond’s voice is rougher now, the tightness of his jeans only showing how the front stretches, just enough to be noticeable. “Slowly,” he orders, threading steel through the command.

Q swallows, pushing himself up to his elbows, feeling pinned by the intensity of Bond’s gaze. He’s never been one for shyness, still possessing of a boldness born from minimal social contact and a sharp mind. He bites his lips, worries them a little, deciding to start with an answer. “Yes, sir.”

He plucks off his glasses first, setting it gently by the bedside table, followed by the cardigan, shucked with unraveling grace. His shirt goes next, removed a little hesitatingly. He does not have the figure of a well muscled man, like Bond, and coding all day tends to leave one with a less than desirable body. He runs, and occasionally exercise, but his gangly limbs and flat stomach are nothing to talk home of. He squints at Bond standing a few feet away, wishing he could see his expression.

He must have stalled long enough, and the blurry blob that is Bond shifts. “Go on,” he encourages, and Q pulls down the waistband of his pajamas pants, heartened to hear the thick, heavy arousal in Bond’s voice.

His briefs go last, slightly sticky and wet, and he lets out a hiss as his cock slips loose, still half hard from Bond’s coaxing. He leans back on his elbows again, feeling undeniably foolish and exposed, skin heavy with anticipation for whatever comes next.

He could just about see Bond slinking around the bed, sliding in with predatory intent, moving from a blur to a more defined shape in front of Q’s eyes. He runs his palms up Q’s flanks with the same slow, pressure, eyes taking in the vast amount of creamy skin before him. “Good boy,” he croons. “Such a good boy for following orders, listening to me. You look exquisite, you know that? So beautiful, so delectable, and all for me. Oh, the things I want to do to you, Q.” 

Q arches into the touches, stretching and letting the praise sink into his bones, making him sun warmed and lust drunk. The friction of the rough palms feel amazing on his skin, and he reached up to wind his arm around Bond’s bicep, trying to reciprocate.

Strong hands come up to capture his wrists, squeezing hard enough to hurt and pushing it away. “Uh uh,” Bond tuts, pushing Q’s wrist together and holding it above his head. “Hold it there. No touching until I say so.”

Q feels a stab of disappointment, but does as he is told, eager to hear Bond praise him again. He holds perfectly still, wriggling a little as Bond pets his hair, fingers tangling through the curls to tug and scratch, accompanied by another whispered “Good boy.”

He gasps as his hair is roughly pulled, suddenly and without warning jerking his head to the side and exposing his neck, followed by Bond shushing and rubbing soothing circles over the pained area, lips going to the column of the neck to bite and suck. Q moans, low and needy, as Bond peppers little nips and licks, pausing over each tender spot, never letting up on the pressure. He drinks in the scent of Q in the bowl of his collarbones, biting the juncture of the shoulder, hard enough for a reddish mark. Moving up, he explores Q's face with soft, barely there kisses on the nose and eyelids, then down to the pink whorls of the inside of the ear, remembering to pay extra attention to the back of his ear, if only to hear him quietly sob with joy.

He moves down to Q’s torso, pausing to lick his nipples into hard nubs, biting down gently and feeling Q squirm and make little noises of need. Sensitive, then. It could come in handy. He swirls his tongue around it in practiced circles, pulling away to blow cool air over saliva warmed flesh, feeling a flash of satisfaction as Q pushes himself up to his mouth, lips opened in a cry. Q has probably never knew the merits of nipple play, and to be the one to introduce it to him presents a boost to his ego.

He continues his slow exploration even lower, over flat, taut stomach muscles and the V of Q’s hipbones, dipping and licking and sucking little marks into the skin. He watches as Q lavishes in the pleasure wrought from his skills, feeling a little burn of pride at the marks. This is what he loves from the jobs, to give what his partners need, to brand them as his own, with his teeth and lips, even if it’s only for a while.

Q is incredibly receptive, sometimes sinking deeper into the sheets, humming his approval, sometimes arching and demanding, always with a litany of “more, more, more”. He doesn’t touch - Bond compliments him with another running commentary of praise - although he clenches and unclenches his palms into fists, his hands stays resolutely still. Q is a fast learner, and Bond is immensely proud. 

He teases around the thighs, skirts the heavy girth hanging between Q’s legs, always coming close but never close enough, and Q wails with the injustice of it as Bond nibbles the sensitive inner thighs, breathes hot puffs against his cock and chuckles as Q grunts his dissent. When Q finally bucks his hips up, seeking friction, well, there'll be time to teach him to behave. He pins Q’s hips down, pushing up, warning, “This goes at my pace, or not at all.”

Q huffs, his cock already leaking and hard on his stomach, the pretty little thing, but he stays, eyes large and pleading, as silent as can be. Bond’s mouth waters at the sight, just knowing, that he's going to ruin Q by the end of the night.

He pulls the shirt over his head, throws it on the ground and make short work of the jeans. The tenting of the fabric is obvious as anything, but it doesn’t stop Q’s eyes from widening as he pulls out his cock, giving it a few pumps to spread the pre-cum over the length. Q’s hands makes an abortive movement towards it, and Bond catches the slip.

“Naughty boy,” he scolds, pushing the foreskin up to the tip, cupping the liquid that gathers and spreading it on the downward stroke. “Wanting what you can’t have. And for that, you’ll just have to learn a little more patience.”

Q makes a little half snarl, fighting for control of his emotions. He pouts, watching with hungry, wide eyes as Bond kneels over him, cock in hand and very much in full view, wanking leisurely without care for Q’s frustration.

“Well, darling,” he smirks, free hand going down to tug at his balls. “Aren’t you going to beg for forgiveness?”

This startles a response from Q, who obligingly pleads, “Please,” voice spindly with want. His adam’s apple bobs, and Bond could almost see him stick his tongue out for more. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, sir,” Q is almost sobbing now, his own cock red and heavy and drooling copiously, untouched and neglected. “Please, I want -, I need -” His eyes fixes at the tip as Bond pulls the skin down, exposing the shiny head. “Anything you want, sir, please, Just - choke me on it, fuck me with it, I just need.”

Q must be out of his mind with desperation to be running his mouth off like that, and Bond takes pity on him, puts the head to his lips, coating it with pre cum. The tiny pants of air against his dick as Q trembles in expectation makes for a temptation to push into the wet heat, but he grits his teeth and wait.

“It’s,” Q’s eyes flit up to his. “May I touch, sir?” 

Bond smiles, hand going up to smooth back the curls. “Since you’ve been such a good boy, yes, you may.”

Q’s hands are warm and firm, soft but skilled, and he touches like it’s a wonder. He rubs his lips against the head again, tongue peeking curiously out to lick at the slit. Bond groans, fingers tightening from where it is buried in Q’s thick hair. The sensation gets him everytime, velvet and silk, and he barely holds on to the instinct to just restrain the man and take. “Q…” he warns, as the other man gives a happy sigh, lips forming a seal around the head to just suck contently.

“Oh,” Q replies, eyes darting quick to measure Bond’s response. “It’s just, I’ve never -” He looks guiltily up through his lashes, both hands still absent mindedly pumping. “It’s bigger than I’ve ever had.”

“We’ll have to work on that then, don’t you think?” Bond cards his fingers through Q’s hair, and hooks a thumb behind his ear, staring as Q’s eyes flutter close. 

The heavy weight on his head as Bond pressed him down coaxed Q to become braver in his task, moving forward to swallow as much as he can. He concentrates on the smooth slide and the uncomfortable stretch, a little too big for comfort, lying heavily on his tongue. It's strangely comforting, having it nestled there, and he feeds a little more in, trying to take as much as he can. 

He chokes as the length nudges the soft palette of the mouth, pressing down too fast, too soon. Pulling up and coughing, Q glance up, eyes half shutting as Bond runs another caress through his hair, delving back again with renewed effort, trying to swallow as much as possible.

Q wasn’t lying when he said he’d never had a cock this big; but as inexperienced as he is, he makes up with his enthusiasm, spit dripping down his chin, messy gagging noise spilling from him as the tip hits the back of his throat. He bobs his head in quick motions, twisting his wrist up parts he couldn’t reach, trying to keep up with the pace when Bond groans and starts thrusting, short and sharp. 

Between Bond’s unrelenting grip in his hair and the cock pushing deeper down his throat, there was nowhere Q could go, and the sense of helplessness pulls at his senses, compounding his excitement. He closes his eyes, letting the obscene sounds of the thick cock plunging in and out of his mouth, coupled with Bond’s groans and muttered praises soak in, loving the way his throat convulses around the thick cap, muffled moans dripping from his tongue. Reaching down, he grasps his own erection, trying release a little of the intensifying pressure.

His head is pulled back suddenly, leaving Q to gasp and whine at the sudden absence. Instinctively, there is the urge to try and pull back down again, his tongue already slurping the thin string of saliva connecting the tip to his mouth. A hand leaves his hair, the other still gripped tight and tugging, to lock around his wrist, flinging it away from himself. 

“I never said you could touch yourself.” Bond’s voice is thick with arousal, reluctantly giving up his hold in Q's hair to squeeze himself, trying to stave off the building heat. Damn if Q’s mouth wasn’t a temptation.

Q’s eyes are still fixed on the throbbing cock, but at Bond’s words, he lets them wander up the scenic route, tracing up sculpted muscles and sharp contours to land on Bond’s face. Seeing only displeasure, he ducks his head, ashamed. 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he rasped, voice ruined, and isn’t that a turn on. “I didn’t know, I never meant to, I won’t do it again, just please, please, let me suck your cock -”

“I don’t think so,” Bond’s voice is dangerously smooth, and he rolls off the bed, a glint in his eye. Q pouts again at the lack of contact, lips cherry red and swollen, but his hands remains bunched in the sheets, knowing now not to touch. Bond smiles a that, leaning over to reward Q with a wet kiss on the forehead, just brief enough to leave Q reaching for more, and digs into the pocket of his jeans to find the lube and condom.

Tossing over the lube to Q, he orders, “Prepare yourself”, settling back on the bed at the far corner, watching as Q scrambles to uncap the small bottle and slick his fingers up.

Bond rolls on the condom, stroking in perfunctory motions, groaning his appreciation when Q, eager to please, flips over to his stomach, pushing himself up to his knees and spreading his legs, putting his pretty pink hole on display.

“Good boy,” he growls, as Q traces the first finger around the entrance, dipping the digit in with small, shy movements. Q arches and presents, sinking the finger to the first knuckle at Bond’s words, humming happily at the breaching sensation. “You’re such a slut for me, darling. I’m going to take real good care of you, you know that?” Q whines, small noises of discomfort as he moves the first finger, delving it deeper, pulling them out to lube the second one before pushing back in.

“Mmmm…” Bond stares as Q pushes his fingers in, tiny gasps betraying his losing composure. “You’re so beautiful for me, aren’t you darling? Look at that greedy little hole, just sucking those fingers up, such a perfect little hole. Tell you what darling, I’ll hold you down one day and eat you out, lick you till your cunt’s open and sloppy, you’ll like that, won’t you darling? Hmm?”

Q’s thighs are trembling from the weight of holding himself up, hips already bucking and pushing back as he adds his third finger, loving the feeling of being filled. “Sir,” he gasps, knowing that Bond’s eyes are on him, devouring the sight. “Oh, yes, please sir.”

Bond chuckles, all dark honey and caramel, knee walking forward to palm a cheek. Q presses back to the touch; keens when Bond hooks a thumb on the rim, pulling the pucker open, slipping it in and out in lapping motions. He traces the edge, marveling at Q’s receptiveness, glancing down to see his own erection already dripping into the sheets. “Are you ready for me yet, darling?”

Q is almost sobbing, fingers still pumping quick and slick in his hole. “Yes, sir, yes, fuck me please, I want - I need - you. In me. Please.” His voice peters off to a squeak as Bond tugs on his wrist, hole clenching, lost around the emptiness as he pulls his fingers out. He kneads the pillow as Bond positions the fat tip at the entrance, just barely dipping in, clenching his teeth as he feels the gritty slide lighting up his insides. This is different; so much better than the silicon facsimile, hot, throbbing, and alive in him when Bond seats himself in. He bears down, feeling the cock slide deeper, mouthing words of happiness as it fills him out perfectly. He could do this forever, capture this moment in eternity, the feeling of skin and shifting muscles on top of him, the way Bond’s cock catches and pulls against him in the best of ways, the whispering of dirty secrets against his ear, low and wonderful.

And then Bond starts to move, long, slow slides, and Q falls apart. It drags against his insides, and Q wonders why the hell he hadn’t done this earlier. Urging Bond to go faster, he pushes back, tossing his head as Bond grips his arse, hard enough to bruise, hips pumping quick. The wet, squelching sounds and the slap of skin sets him alight. Bond is brutal and generous in equal measures, taking no prisoners with his hard thrusts, yet always touching, kneading, murmuring his approval. And when he tilts, searching and hitting just the right angle, Q screams, throwing his head back, squeaking high and tight. 

“Do you like this, darling?” Bond asks, merciless as he grabs Q’s hair, pulling his head further back, marking bites up and down the column of his throat. “Tell me.”

But Q has been reduced to a mess of unintelligible mutters, rocking and nodding his head frantically, feeling his orgasm rising even as he replies, “Uh huh,” hoping Bond never lets up. 

Bond laughs, sounding as wrecked as Q feels. “Speechless,” he says, breathless, hips already losing their rhythm. He can feel his balls drawing tight, can see himself spilling in this irresistible young man. “Do you think you deserve to come, darling?”

“Yes,” Q pants, squeezing his eyes shut as Bond rubs his nipples, circling and pulling at the nubs. “Oh yes, sir, I’m begging you, let me come, please, just let me -”

Bond takes pity on him, gliding down the jumping muscles of Q’s abdomen, finally, finally, enclosing around his cock, pumping it relentlessly. “Then come,” he growls, gritting his teeth as Q howls, come painting his chest, his hole squeezing and almost too tight.

Q collapses afterwards, and Bond holds him up, rhythm wild and erratic, needing only a few more pumps before his vision is white and he’s filling the condom.

He lands on the bed a panting mess, careful to twist and avoid settling on Q. Bond gathers Q in his arms, feeling the tiny aftershock shivering through the other man, listening to both their heartbeat’s erratic rhythm. Petting Q’s hair softly, he nuzzles his neck, tracing with no little satisfaction the numerous bites on the skin, cooing as Q’s harsh breath gentles. After some time, Bond slips out carefully, shushing as Q mews and reaches out instinctively at the rush of cold air, giving him a firm squeeze on his thigh, whispering, “I’ll be back.”

He makes quick work of the condom, throwing it into the bin he finds next to the bed, rolling off fully to search for a place to clean up. “Bathroom?” he asks, peering out of the door and back again at the still prostrate Q. “Q, darling, bathroom?” he asks again.

This time the younger man points weakly at a door just north of the bed. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Bond wets a small towel, slipping back into bed with a smile as Q turns, starry eyed and drifting off into subspace, reaching out to mesh tightly with Bond, seemingly unaware of the mess. He watches Bond’s face as it was cleaned, stretching long and contented like a cat in the sun when Bond murmurs nonsense and sweet nothings, delighting in the feel of so much skin on skin. He’s prepared to lie there and let Bond pet him in long soothing motions, eyes blinking lazily and unfocused as he answers in hums.

“Your hair,” Bond begins, breaking a long lazy silence. “I think I’m in love with in.” He tangles his fingers in the silky strands for emphasis and ends up running his hands through it a few more times. “If I had my way, you’ll never cut it short.”

Q shivers at that, letting the implication of the sentence, of the possessiveness in Bond’s tone roll through him. “Then maybe I shall, just to spite you.” He answers playfully, a puddle of limbs as Bond takes to massaging his scalp, strong kneading motions making him purr. “And maybe next time, you’ll have to properly punish me for it.”

“Next time, hmm?” He and the others back at the agency used to rate their clients sometimes, and while Q was by no means the best, it was pleasant, one he’d categorise as ‘memories he’ll wank to’, as he once joked to his colleague. Definitely worth repeating. He moves lower, making small circling motions at the nape of Q’s neck, fingers catching in the short hairs there. “I look forward to it,” he adds, putting just enough of a growl in it to watch Q shiver delightfully.

He leaves after another half an hour, almost as time was up. Q had graciously let him use the shower for a quick wash down, and they part with a strangely formal handshake, Q bundled up in his cardigan and pajamas pants again, hair wrecked beyond salvation. His face is slightly more impassive; professional, almost, but the twinkle in his eye and the small quirk in his lips when Bond hands him his call card was just enough to keep Bond wondering about this intriguing young man. “Goodbye, Mr Bond,” he says amusedly, shutting the door and letting the solenoid locks thunk into place, leaving Bond at the doorstep, grinning and walking away with a spring in his step.

***

Q still uses conventional instant messaging, mostly for nostalgia’s sake, even though he complains to anyone who would hear of them as atrocious in interface and design. But even then it’s useful for contacting people like Moneypenny who won’t know progress if it slaps her in the face. 

He’s nestled on the couch, feeling better than he has in ages, and signs in just in time to see Moneypenny send him a message, a simple ‘pick up!’ with copious amount of exclamation marks. 

Q snorts, abandoning the laptop on the couch to retrieve the phone as it rings absurdly loud across the room. 

“So how was it?”

“Jesus, Moneypants,” Q rolls his eyes, picking up his laptop again to settle on his lap. “Cut right to the chase, why don’t you?”

“You know I was going to grill you the moment he left. Don’t deny a lady the details. Now dish!”

“He was good.” Q says airily, closing down the chatroom and opening up his latest project. “Quite adequate.”

“Quite adequate,” Eve repeats exasperatedly. “You lost your virginity to a very experienced escort and you call it ‘quite adequate’?”

“Oh yes,” Q is smiling properly now, phone wedged between his shoulder and cheek as he taps away. “He kisses well, and his technique was perfect, but the grunting and the dismount was a little tedious.”

“Now you’re just teasing me.”

“Of course I am, ninny.” He pursed his lips, shutting down the programme and powering down the laptop. “Tell you what, why don’t you come over and we’ll go to that bar you like uptown? I’ll tell you everything there. My treat.”

Eve laughs, delighted. “Why, Q, you really should get laid more often. Maybe it’ll even keep you from becoming a grumpy old man by the time you’re forty.”

“Shut it Moneypants, or you’ll be the one picking up the tab.”

***

“Well done,” M says matter of factly when he walks in. “Less than seventy two hours and the client has already made another booking. At this rate, you might even set a new record for yourself.”

Bond quirks his lips in a smile, but otherwise kept silent. He had already predicted it to happen, and quite soon too, if he read Q correctly. Still, it’s felt good knowing that he did well.

“I’ve already uploaded all relevant information to your account. Do look through it, would you?” M has already turned her attentions away from him. Tapping away at her keyboard, she breaks away for a moment to look up at him with a rare half smile. “Good job, Bond.”

Bond fights the instinct to smile back, losing it by quite a margin. “Ma’am,” he replies, turning to go. Work never ceased, and if his mind lingers a little longer on a certain dark haired man, he’ll just have to dismiss it as a hazard of the job.


	2. Candidness and Cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First experience, second time round.

“You’re calling him over again?!” Eve barely keeps her tea in her mouth, just managing not to spit on the sleeping tabby on her lap. “You little minx! And when is he going to come around?”

“Today.” Q trains his eyes on the television and tries not to feel the way his ears are slowly reddening. He pretends to suddenly be extra interested in the news programme, picking up the calico cat at his feet to pet for good measure. “More accurately, tonight.”

Eve gasps, setting down her mug in mock anger. “And you chose to tell me this only now? You’re a horrible friend.” The tabby meows his displeasure, sleeping perch jostled, and Eve shushes him, picking and draping his limp body on her shoulder. 

“Oh yes,” Q snarks back, rubbing the cat’s chin until it becomes a purring mess on his lap. “The man who picks up your bill not three days ago and then held your hair back as you puked all over the pavement outside the bar. Horrible friend indeed.” He picks up the remote, flipping to another channel with a jab of button. “Why is it of such interest to you anyway? It’s not like you can prepare me for whatever’s next like I’m some teenage girl meeting her puppy love.”

“I would love to see that, actually.” Eve laughs at the image, wrestling with him for the remote as he settled on a rerun of an old sci-fi show. “No, no, The Night Manager’s on and it’s my chance to gaze at the wonder that is Hiddleston’s arse. Anyway, I thought it’d be the perfect opportunity to catch a glimpse of him in real life.”

“Whatever for?” Q asks incredulously. “Now you’re the one who sounds like the teenage girl.” He does, however, dutifully switch the channel. 

Eve scoffs. “Would you like me to elaborate? The way you described how he looks like naked, how glorious the sex was, how he had an obsession with your hair, good decision, by the way, about that haircut; of course I’m going to have to take a look. I mean, for God’s sake, you actually moaned out loud when you talked about him putting his prick in you!”

The blush that was receding came back with a vengeance. “Bugger.”

“So you see,” Eve says, settling back into the couch with a satisfied sigh, eyes glued to the screen, tabby nestled sleepily in the crook of her shoulder, “I have good reason to grab a peek at him.”

Eve sips her cooling tea with a serene and slightly diabolical smile as Q tries not to curl up in a ball of post-drunk embarrassment, mind already half regretting oversharing.

***  
Eve leaves an hour before Bond is due to arrive, partly because she has work to do, even though Q reminds her that it’s a holiday, and partly because she wants to leave him ‘to prepare’. The words are said with a smile and a lewd wink, and Q sticks his tongue out at her, unimpressed.

He does prepare, but not before getting a little too caught up with creating another swath of code in his head, leaving his fingers pruney and hair wet, his cats still loose. He leaps out of the bathtub when he catches a glimpse of the time, swearing quietly as he bundles himself up in a bathrobe and trying to coax the two cats into the kitchen. 

Which is how Bond finds him, hair still plastered to his forehead, eyes wide and clutching the surly beasts to his chest as he deactivates the lock on his door.

Bond freezes at the doorway, eyes flicking to over his body, then to the yowling cats, and back to his forehead. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to find the perfect opening line.

Q tries for a strained smile, unhappy to be caught in a less than composed state. “You’re early,” he says, in lieu of a greeting.

“You’ve cut your hair,” Bond replies brusquely, ignoring his comment. His eyes narrows and he enters the flat, strides rolling and smooth as he lets the door shut behind him. “Why.”

Q refuse to be intimidated, even as Bond steps closer, invading his personal space. The cats complains as he crushes them closer to him. “I was due for a haircut.”

“Really?” The calico cranes his neck, bumping his nose to Bond’s chest in an investigatory sniff. Holding out a finger absently to let him scent, Bond’s voice lowers, hush and intimate. “And here I thought you just did it to rile me up.”

“Maybe,” Q smiles enigmatically, the sight of Bond stroking from the tip of the calico’s nose to his neck and the tension between them enough to spark a sense of hilarity to the situation. “Maybe not.”

Bond hums, other hand coming up to scratch the chin of the tabby who had finally demanded some attention from the visitor. He looks down at them, dangerous gaze finally leaving Q, talented fingers rubbing and scratching the purring cats in a way that almost makes Q jealous. “Infuriating little creature, aren’t you, darling?”

It might be the cold, or the fact that he was still wet from the shower, but Q could feel a shiver snake up his spine at the tone. The tone that he’s starting to realise would lead to a Pavlovian response just from thinking about the the possibilities that could happen next.

Bond looks up through his lashes, eyes dark and heavy, and he must know it’s his best angle, because it makes Q’s knees weak and heat pool in his belly. “Go do what you have to to the cats. I want you on the bed, naked, in five minutes. Understood?” At Q’s breathy “yes, sir”, he smiles, tilting his head and asking, in a lighter tone, “Now, where’s the bathroom again?”

Pointing towards the back, Q watch Bond walk off, looking all the world like a predator staking out his territory, admiring the view of jeans stretched tight over an amazingly pert arse. Shooing the cats into the kitchen with an armload of toys, he locks the door, turning to untie the bathrobe and crawl into the middle of the bed, closing his eyes and letting his skin slide over silky sheets.

Bond finds him like this, cross legged like the first time, eyes bright and careful as he tracks Bond’s movement to the bedside. He close his eyes as Bond draws near, craning his neck out like a big cat himself, planting his hands on the bed as Bond runs his hand from neck to hair, kneading small circles at particular spots as he strains not to touch. The heat of Bond's closeness is a near tangible force, all quiet masculinity and power, and Q finds himself settling as Bond’s petting grows heavier, wanting to give in whatever way he can.

Bond lets his fingers trip down Q’s cheeks, ghosting over his pulse and feeling it race, marveling at the man’s eager response and letting himself sink into the moment. He lets the caresses carry on a little longer, a small reward for Q remembering to keep his hands off, finally making another pass from neck to hairline, dragging into the cropped hair, too short and unsatisfying to grasp. Tipping a finger under his chin, Bond pushes Q’s chin up, compensating for the lack of grip. Q muffles his sound of surprise, eyes startled and clouded with desire.

“I’m sure you know what you’re doing with this,” he murmurs, tightening his grip a little to make his point. “You’re being such a naughty boy, aren’t you.” 

“Depends on what you mean,” Q shoots back, undeterred by the shift in power. “I never once heard you forbid me to cut my hair.”

“No,” Bond admits, fingers tracing over the pulse again, voice velvet smooth with the hint of threat. “But I’m not an idiot either, Q, and I’d say this is your way of testing limits and teasing me hmm?”

Q grins, full of teeth. “Oops,” he shrugs, looking very unperturbed for someone so vulnerable. “You’ve got me.”

“Now that we’ve established your insolence,” A flex of muscle and lighting fast twist of limbs sends Q’s world tilting before it rights itself again, belly down against the coarse denim of Bond’s jean clad thigh. He cranes his neck instinctively, trying to gather his wits, only to have his chin grabbed almost too painfully as Bond pulls his head up. Bearing his weight on his arms, Q arches his back, knee scrabbling to find purchase as Bond drawls in his ear, “The pretty boy deserves to be punished, don’t you think?”

Q moans, pushing up as high as he could go, begging for a kiss. Bond relents, crushing their mouths together harshly, tongue tangling and taking, a perfect slide on the side of not enough.

Bond’s hands are fondling his arse now, slow rubbing motions and the occasional squeeze, cupping and kneading the globes with exploratory movements. Q tilts his hips, trying to seek more, gasping into the kiss as a sharp smack and the blossoming sting engulfs his left cheek. 

Bond’s voice is immediate and low by his ear. “No moving, darling.” His hands are there again, smooth swaths and the hot expanse of contact almost making the command impossible to ignore. “Safeword?”

It takes a second for the question to register, and Q had to struggle a little to clear the fog in his mind to answer. “Trojan,” he says, pressing his cheek to Bond’s shirt, feeling deliciously taut muscles as he nuzzles. “Safeword’s ‘trojan’.”

“Good boy.” And there it is again, the phrase he’s waiting to hear, especially from that whiskey on gravel rasp, one that he’ll deny to the end of his days will turn him to putty and probably, embarrassingly, make him come standing in the line for grocery shopping. He whines, remembering just in time not to thrust his hips and Bond slips a thumb between the crack, dragging roughly and pushing hard enough just to glance over his entrance. There is no fairness in this, Q thinks, even as he’s this close to begging. They’ve barely started and already Bond is exploiting his need for touch.

The next hit takes him by surprise and he yelps, embarrassingly high. “Count,” Bond orders, smoothing over the sting. “Or I start all over.”

Another hit, the crack loud in the silent room. Q buries his face in the sheets, whimpering as Bond roughly fondles his arse, the friction of his palm a heady glide over hot skin. “One.”

The next hit was deliberately spaced out, unexpectedly high on his thigh, and Bond trails his fingers up the reddening globes to the divot of Q’s spine, dipping in sweet and delicate, scratching gently as Q gasps “Two.”

It’s baffling how fast it gets him aroused, the hard, sharp shock countered by the petting riling him up, making him rut, desperate and wanting, on the rough of Bond’s jeans, leaking and hard all over the expensive sheets. It’s a pushing of boundaries too, Q realises, Bond taking his ‘no extreme pain’ limit and testing the definition, seeking to understand. Tit for tat, and all that, and Q is extremely grateful for it.

Grateful enough, it seems, to beg. He’s not sure for what; between the fire in his belly and the adrenaline rush from the pain, he’s willing to take anything Bond can give.

“So you think you’ve been punished enough?” Bond, damn him, is still irritatingly clothed and sounding mildly amused, fingers carding through hair now damp with sweat, slipping through without finding purchase. Q glares up at him through his his fringe, wiggling his arse enticingly.

“Well, get on with it, then.” He pauses, remembering his manners. “Sir.”

Bond tuts, trailing fingertips to the nape of his neck, bumping down the ladder of his spine. “That’s not very polite of you, is it, darling?” He retraces his path, pausing at the juncture of his neck and back, pressing nails in hard enough to leave an indent. “Apologise.”

“I’m sorry,” Q says immediately, pompousness still evident in his voice. “Sir.”

A series of smacks has him jerking forward, crying out in surprise. They hurt, more so than the ones before, intend to subdue than to tease. “Not good enough,” Bond says, disapproving. “Try again.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sor - ah!” He tries to twist, as another slap lands on the same area as the one before. He can feel his resolve weaken as tears blurs his eyes. “Please, sir, I’m so sorry for - for what I did. I -” He’s still not sure what to say, but he makes up for it with his earnestness. “I won’t do it again. I’m sorry for antagonising. Please, I need - I need -”

“That’s better,” Bond murmurs, head ducking down and body cocooning Q’s the overwhelming smell, touch, and weight of him everywhere. He noses the sweaty strands of feather down hair at the back of his neck, turning Q’s face towards his to lick away the tears. “I think,” his other hand snakes down to stroke teasingly over Q’s hard on as Q rocks into the loose fist. “You've derived your reward, don't you?”

And Bond is slipping off the bed, the loss of him a bewildering feeling. Q tries to look, craning over shoulder and propping himself up, only to have Bond grab him about the waist like he weighs nothing, dragging him to the edge of the mattress and shoving a few pillows under his hips, presenting the lovely plushness of Q’s arse on display.

“My beautiful, beautiful boy,” Rubbing his cheeks across abused flesh, Bond grins as Q’s knees dug in and his hips fidget, flinching as stubble prickles over sensitive skin. He pushes the legs wider, letting Q rest on the mound of pillows, palming and prying open his cheeks to reveal his sweet pucker. “So pretty for me.”

Q’s skin tingle with excitement, already anticipating Bond’s next move, barely reining himself him from reaching back and holding himself open in a silent askance for more. He settles for pushing back demandingly, the harsh spark of his skin as Bond tightens his hold to restrain him only heightening his excitement.

“Pushy little one, aren’t you?” Bond laughs kissing the lowest knob of his spine, worrying his teeth in when Q whines in protest. Bond keeps his palms pulled open, accidental glances of his thumb slipping over Q’s hole sending him into overdrive. 

Q pouts, tilting his hips to chase the sensation. “You did say it was a reward,” he replied smartly. “But if you're going to continue to tease, I'd be disinclined to believe you.”

Bond laughs, warm staccato breath puffing over his entrance, making Q make an ‘hmph' sound of protest. “Just for that, I'll delay the treat a little longer.”He rubs a thumb on the velvet soft of the perineum, dry digit brushing with just enough friction.

Q groans, dropping his face on the sheets, biting his lips as Bond trace teasingly, arching as much as possible and asking in his sweetest voice, “Please?”

Bond hums, pressing his lips to the pucker and flicking his tongue out, barest hint of wetness before it's gone. “Please what?”

“Please sir, please, put your,” Q gulps, shutting his eyes and gathering the shreds of his courage. “I need your tongue in me, sir,” he tries again. “Could you? Would you -?”

Bond dives in, pressing in soft, sucking kisses, nibbling around the edges, fleeting and sweet and tasting, only tasting, and Q moans, pleased to be finally, finally getting what he wants, smugness disappearing under the sheer want of it all.

“You taste,” Bond murmurs, dipping his tongue in past the tight breach, outer muscles squeezing and parting as Q shakes above him. “So, so good.” He punctuates each word with a flick upwards, words muffled in a filthy slurp as he digs in deeper, straining and craning to taste more, to satisfy his needy boy squirming over him. 

Q gasps, little “ah, ah, ah” sounds innocent and desperate in equal measures, torn between pulling back and reaching for more as Bond nips and sucks and brings him to the edge with talented teeth and tongue, lapping slippery and wet across burning skin, the newness of it all adding a sharper edge to his lust drunk vision. He squeaks in delight, trying to rut into the pillow, only to be held down by Bond, devouring devoutly, making his toes curl and tears run again.

Bond pulls back with a pop and a slurp, dirty sounds Q will wank to for the rest of his days. He whines in disappointment, unhappy at the brief point of contact, perking up again at the quiet snick of the cap, flexing his spine in undulating motions as Bond swipes the lube across his hole, loose enough to slip a fingertip in. 

“Squeeze,” Bond tells him, increasing pressure and letting the fingers pressing in, in, in, watching the stretch and the hungry squelch of the sphincter, stopping just before the inner breach, too short and not rigid enough. He wipes his chin, sloppy with saliva, rubbing his cheeks across lush buttocks again, the scrape of whiskers making Q jump and clench instinctively.

Q tries, concentrating through the whirlwind of sensation, closing the muscle in a sweet, shy kiss, wet and dirty, the edges curling and lapping hungrily. Bond groans at the view, leaning back down to join his tongue back in, free hand going to squeeze the tightening bulge of his jeans, heady smell of the slick musky desperation drive him insane, let the unique taste of Q coat his mouth as he gulps, pucker still constricting as Q trashes.

Searching, Bond press his finger along the bundle of nerves, massaging insistently, still eating Q out, the pinch of his entrance spasming convulsively now. Q is positively screaming, fingers clenched painfully tight in crumpled sheets, head thrown back, streaked with tears and sweat. He surges up, flips Q over in one powerful motion; watch as the man flops like a puppet with strings cut, strung out and high on his own need. Q watch through eyes half shut, too lust drunk to do more than hook his ankles around Bond’s waist, the beautiful hazel slant narrowing in confusion as Bond unhooks his legs, hiking it up to his shoulders, pushing knobbly knees up to flushed chest.

“Oh,” Q says reverently as Bond sinks down, wicked smile on his face to nuzzle as the pulsing erection, swollen and red from neglect. Q arches his neck, the sole of his feet kneading and bunching the fabric of Bond’s shirt, thighs pillowing his head in a coy manner, shielding the outside for an obscene peep show. Bond swallows it whole, no hesitation and no deliberation, nose sinking into the wiry hairs at the base, and Q was, for a moment, insanely jealous of just how easy he could do that. 

And then he is lost in the pleasure, hands scrabbling for purchase in short blonde hair, keening his thanks for the intensity of it all as Bond devours with skilfull licks and sucks. 

He doesn’t last long - can’t last long - and he screams himself raw as he comes down Bond’s throat, thighs trembling and toes cramping.

He doesn’t see Bond come, only feels as Bond turns him on his front again, shaky hands and rough words of endearment wrapping him in post orgasmic bliss as Bond jerks the zipper of his jeans down and presses his straining cock between his thighs, thrusting in velvet glides, rubbing himself off with a harsh grunt, the sudden pooling of come thick and messy on ruined sheets. 

Bond nearly crushes him with his weight, limbs jelly and heavy with satedness, hot breath panting over Q’s neck as they wait for the calming of racing hearts. He pulls the other man in roughly, until there is barely an inch of space between them, kicking off his jeans and pants and shedding his shirt with difficulty, trying to maintain in constant contact with Q. Curling an arm possessively around Q's torso, he smiles as Q gave a happy sigh, curling his body into a comma and hooking a leg around Bond's waist.

They stay like this for an age, enjoying the press of skin without the barrier of clothes, tracing contours and necking lazily like teenagers. Bond feels a rush of fondness as Q tips his head into the insistent pressure of fingers in his scalp, politely pushing and asking for more. 

“So,” he says after a long, contented silence. Q cracks open an eye in askance. “Your cats. What are their names? We've officially met, but I don't think we've been introduced.”

“Introduced!” Q laughs, still a little giddy from the high. “You make it sound like a meet the parents session.” 

“Well, they do like me well enough, I think.” Bond says with mock anxiety. “Do you think they'll approve of us?”

Q snorts. “You could always bribe them with fishy treats if they don't.” He stretched luxuriously, shivering at the easing of the enjoyable ache, snuggling back into Bond's arms, well away from the humongous wet spot. “If you must know, the tabby’s named Cat and the calico’s Lord Wimbledon Alexander von Gyver de Whimsy. Lord Wimby for short.”

Bond stared incredulously at Q, feeling a laugh build up in his chest as Q slowly turns red. “You named him what?”

“It wasn't intentional,” Q protested defensively, burying his head in Bond's throat and feeling the rumble of his chuckle. “Eve, that's my friend and neighbour, and I were very drunk and watching a show on lords and barons at that time. When we came to our senses we've apparently stuck a post it with the name on Wimby’s fur, so there's that.” He pinched the sensitive underside of Bond's arms as the other man continued to laugh. “I’ll have you know that I’ll have to call on them to defend my honour if you don’t stop laughing.”

“They don’t seem aggressive,” Bond observes. “Just curious and inquisitive.”

“Cat loved to bite when he was young.” Q buffs his cheeks against Bond’s chin, feeling their scruff catch. “It took being neutered and a patented spray toy to rid him of his bad habit.” He runs his hands along the lines of Bond’s body, taking the time to wander and explore. “It was so much more cheaper to design toys and other things they need, instead of buying them. More worth it too, when you see them abandoning a generic chase toy to run after a modified roomba with a laser beam.”

Bond grins, remembering the large amount of electronics littering the living room. “You’re very good with your hands,” he says, waggling his brows at the weak innuendo as Q’s fingers brush the peak of his nipples. Q huffs amusedly, leaning in to nip at his collarbone. “Would you be willing to show me what else you’ve made? They sound fascinating.”

“Really?” Q looks up at him in surprise. “I mean, I would love to, but most of the time I get so excited showing it off that I start going too much into the manufacturing process. People tend to glaze over then.”

“Forgive me if I’m disinclined to believe you, then."Tracing his fingers between the spaces of Q’s ribs, Bond pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’ll try to follow whatever you’re saying to the best of my abilities, but really, it would be intriguing to know what goes on behind the scenes, rather than just admiring the final product.”

“If you say so,” Q said, a touch doubtfully. “I don’t invent things on a daily basis, though. I’ve got a job but sometimes it stretches you too thin, and inventing is the only way to find yourself again. Breaking down something into its components and rebuilding them with a completely different concept. Mixing and matching and creating something not here nor there, but more complete in its disjunctive nature,There’s a certain sort of poetic nature to it all, really. Plus, it relaxes me.”

Bond hums, tickling the back of Q’s neck gently, curling his pinky around feathery strands. “Like Neruda’s poetry,” he offers, recalling quiet nights spend on sofas, hurting and alone with his book and scotch. “His words are always so visceral, so evocative, sometimes just by using almost incompatible images.”

Q makes a sound of thoughtfulness. “Oh yes. He’s one of my favourite poets, although my head always start to ache when I read too much of him.” He brightens, mind already drifting to the multitude of his creations. “I’m working on a toaster with AI. It can communicate through a series of beeps and is entirely self sufficient, but somehow it always seems to burn the toast. And the mini vacuum cleaner that always seem to get stuck at corners. The cats hate it, for some reason.”

Bond smiles at Q's enthusiasm, watching his eyes light up at as he recalls his inventions. “There's no reason we can't see them now.” he suggests, even as he runs his nose up Q's shoulders, snuffling into the nook behind his ears

Q tips his chin back, savoring the tingle of pleasure spreading, finally making up his mind to roll off the bed, catching the time on the alarm clock in the process. “Your time's almost up,” he says, a little disappointed, flopping back down with a sigh. “Maybe next time then?”

“Next time.” Bond promises with a little kiss to the hollow of Q's throat, feeling the surge of triumph and anticipation of coming back. Q has a surprisingly magnetic presence, and Bond had enjoyed engaging him beyond sex. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

“Oh no,” Q gestures dismissively. “Go ahead.” He flinch a little as his bare feet hit the cool floor. “I've got to go let the cats out before they become mutinous and try to eat me.”

“Eat you?” Bond springs up from the bed in an agile move, ambling towards the toilet with all the smugness of a man knowing Q was staring unabashedly at his arse. “You're barely worth more than a mouthful! They’ll be hungry again before they finish devouring you. ”

Q shoots him a sharp grin before he disappears around the corner. “At which point they'll eat you too, so it's more of a lose-lose situation isn't it?”

“I'll have you know that I can think of forty ways off the top of my head on how to incapacitate cats,” Bond warns, half shutting the door as he finishes doing his business. “But don't worry, I'll use those skills to swoop you away from the man eating cats.”

There's a soft jingling of bell growing closer and the very demanding meows of the two cats as they're released from their confines. “My hero.” Q calls our sarcastically. “Wait, forty? Don't tell me you work as a martial arts trainer in your free time.”

“Close enough.” Bond laughs, padding towards the jumble of his clothes on the bedside floor just as the tabby - Cat, Bond recalls - trots towards him, tail high and crooked, meowing and winding around his legs. He tries to swat him aside to put on his pants and jeans. “I’m well trained in the art of self defense, and I like to swim and sparr whenever I can, if only because the thrill is enjoyable.”

“Not as enjoyable as sex though,” Q says, peering up through his fringe slyly, although the haircut diminished the effect somewhat. He holds Lord Wimby in a cradle, and the cat reaches up to bat his nose, making him scrunch it and lean down to plant a loud smack between the calico’s ears.

Bond smile fondly, tugging his shirt on and bending to give Cat a pat, tickling his chin as he purrs loudly in delight. “Not as enjoyable,” he agrees, letting his fingers trail along the natural curve of Cat’s spine. “I’ll see my way out then?”

The corner of Q’s mouth quirks up, and he looks strangely vulnerable in the too big bathrobe. “Of course.” Bond tries not to stare at the silver of skin as the bathrobe slips down his shoulder, crowding Q in until his back bumps against the wall.

“Till next time?” He asks softly, cupping Wimby’s chin and kneading.

Q’s smile turns devious. “Why Mr Bond, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me shell out more money for your company.” 

Bond brushes a soft kiss across Q’s cheeks, letting Wimby’s purr fill the air between them. “To be honest? I’d gladly spend time with you for your company, whether or not you’re paying.” The statement is not altogether false; he’s more fond of some clients, and the surprise that it Q, with his intelligence and sharp wit, his uncompromised sweetness, and the way he submits so beautifully is lethal in combination and makes Bond want in a way he hasn’t for a long time.

Q’s expression soften, and he reciprocates with a peck at the corner of his mouth. “You always know the right thing to say.” He ducks from beneath Bond’s arms, lithe and slippery, to disengage the locks. “Till next time,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! I do believe that there's a vague storyline coming through but I'm up for discussions and theories!
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated:)


	3. Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q spends a night away from home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure, unmitigated fluff and I have only the slightest apologies for that

“You’ll be on mandatory paid leave for the next week,” M says without preamble when Bond steps into her office. She is dressed in another one of her dreary looking suit, face forever impassive and unchanging, clicking away with sturdy taps at her computer. “It will be effective as of now so I don’t want to see, hear, or even smell you and your expensive cologne around here for the next seven days, do you understand?”

Bond sits himself down in one of the comfy armchair in front of her desk without being asked to. She lets him get away with it. “I don’t need a paid leave,” he says obstinately, arms spread wide and resting on the armrest with insolent and almost sulky grace. “I’ll only get bored and end up on national news with one fuck up or another. Then how are you going to sort out the mess?”

That at least grants him a pause in tapping and a sharp glare over horn rimmed glasses. “I suggest you get a hobby,” she says tartly, used to the monthly conversations now. “Contrary to what you may think, I actually do care about you, and your mindset towards this job is getting a little alarming.” She shifts around, pulling files out of cabinets and flipping through documents, focus already lost on him. “You need to start finding a balance between all of this, before it swallows you whole and spits you out. This field of work may be a young man’s niche, but you’ve done spectacularly beyond your years, and if you’d like to continue doing so, you need to learn how to get out and think once in awhile. Starting,” she throws him a sharp look. “With a paid leave.”

Bond sigh, buttoning up his jacket and tipping forward to stand. He knows, he understands, and yet every month the same warring spite rose at the insinuation that he was, just maybe, too old and redundant for this. But for all of M’s icy demeanor, Bond trusts her and respects her decisions, so he takes the leave and plans for a week of steeping in boredom and the inevitable creeping depression. He idly wonders if he could persuade Alec on a trip to the countryside for laughs. He nods curtly at M, who probably did not notice him standing and thus did not acknowledge his greeting, and turn to exit.

“And Bond,” M calls out, and his hands paused over the door knob. “I’d try out knitting if I were you. Superb for concentration and guaranteed to produce very useful results.”

Bond smiles, halfway between genuine and sarcastic. “I’ll take it into consideration,” he replies, letting himself drift out like a lost wisp in the wind.

***

The thing is, they had a nice arrangement, once every week, with a break on the last week of the month when Bond, Q was informed, is not available. The cathartic nature of it all is starting to have a profound effect on him and his work, and the endless list of commissions were easier to tackle now. Even Eve had commented on his general lack of grumpiness over the past three months.

It feels nice, for a lack of a better word, to have someone to depend on for regular orgasms and companionship. The fact that Bond is easy on the eye was just another perk for him. 

Which is why he always feels slightly bereft when the last week of the month rolls around and he finds himself without the creative, mind blowing sex and easy conversation. He fancies that Bond is missing him too, with just that inexplicable sense of turning to the side and finding no one to tell a particularly bad pun to, or a cool side of the bed with the lingering scent of someone gone. Then he berates himself, because he is Bond’s client, for goodness sake, and it’s only twits like him who can’t distinguish reality from paid fantasy.

He leaves his flat in a fit of ennui, making his way down the unfamiliar path to the supermarket, recipe for a one man’s dinner in hand, only to end up standing in front of the grains section realising that they did not sell couscous here. 

Q glanced down at the glowing screen of his phone, at the specific instructions cheerfully telling him to half a cup of couscous, and then back to the grains section helplessly.

“Shit,” he mutters, because sure, give him a code red protocol situation in the middle of a virus attack and he can be counted on to make all the split second decisions, but ask him to make variations on a recipe and he’s screwed. He huffs a sigh of annoyance, wishing he’d dragged Eve along. 

It took another hour, a bus ride, and frantic googling before he ends up at some hipster store in the better part of town selling overpriced foodstuff to pretentious health conscious arseholes. It’s the longest journey he had voluntarily embarked on for a long time. The store is pleasant enough, though, and they do have free samples, so it was worth the inconvenience.

He wanders the aisle in his torn jeans and baggy anorak, scuffed shoes squeaking on linoleum floor, feeling the eyes of the other customers landing heavily on his comfort clothing with mild distaste. He ignores them, because most of them smell like they haven’t bathed in a week and he knows for a fact that his anorak alone actually costs more than their entire outfit. There is still no couscous to be found.

He’s dipping his fingers delightedly in a giant barrel of brown rice when he heard someone, with that specific baritone he’d been conditioned to make his knees weak and his eyes cast down said, “Q?!”

It’s Bond, of course it’s Bond, in trousers and dress shirt that looks tailored within an inch of its life, pushing a trolley and wearing a shocked look, because the universe would be the one to work against him in a such a way as to bring the object of his mild misery to him, like that time where he ended up being served mexican food when he had diarrhea. 

They stand there like idiots, conflicting emotions spilled on the too bright lanes between whole grains and multigrain bread, trying to gather their wits. Q recovers first, blinking rapidly to clear the mirage that is James bloody Bond before him. When it doesn't work, he clears his throat and, with a steady voice that he would forever be proud of, replied shortly, “Bond.”

Bond rolls the trolley closer to him, looking way too comfortably overdressed for grocery shopping. His shock had worn off into a small smile, dazzling in its rare warmth, easy grace and solid presence fills up the area around Q as he smiles like he’s actually happy to see him.

“Hello,” he says amicably, crow’s feet spreading gently at the corner of his eyes, the cragginess of his face and his sauntering walk making the greeting sound suitably rakish. Q’s pulse is beating embarrassingly fast. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hello,” Q says back, at lost as to what to say, one hand still stuck in the barrel. He gives his fingers a wriggle, letting the pebbly rice grains slide coolly through, brushing away strands of newly grown hair from his eyes with his free hand, trying to think. “I was hoping to make dinner, but none of the stores I went to sells couscous.” He digs the phone out from his pocket, waving it in the air awkwardly, gesturing to the recipe.

“Couscous?” Bond repeats in surprise, leaning over to peer at the screen. “I’ve never tried cooking with that, but I think they store them near the baking section.”

The nearness of Bond is startling, a strange thing to have, and Q had to resist reaching out and tracing the thick corded muscles of his neck, seeking comfort in the heaviness of draped arms on his torso. “That’s a ridiculous place to store grains. Now I have to walk all the way to the other end of the store for it.”

Bond chuckles, face still way too close for the casualness of strangers. It’s incredibly easy to slide into their normal jabbing quips, and Q could almost pretend that they are friends. 

“I’m making dinner too, later.” Bond phrases his words carefully, as a question, the icy blue of his eyes darkening with sincere hesitation and hope. “It’s awfully lonely without company. Would you care to join me?”

Q could feel his lips stretch into a grin, the squirmy feeling deep in his chest evaporating into buoyant joy. “Why, Mr Bond, are you propositioning me? How scandalous.”

Bond laughs. “No,” he says firmly. “Only as friends. Only for dinner.”

Q’s heart sinks again, like an unintended belly flop through viscous syrup. “Ah. I’m so sorry for assuming -”

“- and we’ll see where the night leads.”

The full implication of Bond’s words hit him, and Q breaths easy again, catching as he realised what he was offering. 

“You won’t mind?” He asks, softly, uncertainly.

“Only if you want.” Bond confirms. He glance at the contents of his cart. “Plus, I know a brilliant dish we could make with our combined ingredients.”

Q deliberates for a moment, without deliberating at all. “Why not?” he says, and they turn to hunt down the remaining items.

***

The tension melts somewhat when they arrive at Bond’s house, a lavish excuse of a flat with its gorgeous french windows and polished wood floor. It’s homey and old fashioned; a wide, open concept space with prettily arranged furniture, emanating a lovely, romantic air. There’s evidence of habitation, a sure sign of a bachelor’s pad, from the clothings draped over sofas to an unwashed tumbler on the edge of the table.

Q lets his fingers trail along bookshelves and table, stopping at an antique turntable. He hums, tracing the dull brass. “I rarely see these anymore.”

“No,” Bond agrees, placing an armload of groceries on the island counter. He starts to unpack bottles of condiments and seasoning Q had never really bothered using before. “But if you were ten years younger, you might have.”

“And age joke,” Q said dryly. “A low blow, even for you.”

Bond shoots him a cheeky grin. “It never gets old.” Turning towards the fridge, he calls over his back, “Stop dawdling and come help with dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” Q gives a lazy salute that went unseen by Bond, smirking as he sees Bond stiffen and deliberately relax when the phrase registers.

He doesn’t accost Q when he does finally saunter into the kitchen though, choosing instead to relegate the task of marinade and sauce making to him. Q doesn’t know whether to feel relief or disappointment, but he takes comfort in the hope that this could be something a lot greater than just pleasure.

They joke freely as Bond prepares the meat, wielding the knife with deft fingers as Q watch and stirs the sauce. They’re preparing something Italian; Q can’t be bothered to pronounce it, but Bond had leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Don’t tell anyone, but they’re a secret recipe from my grandmother.”

Q scoops a little of the sauce to taste. “Liar. You found it in five minutes online like any sane person will.”

Bond throws his head back and laughed at that, a mesmerising sight. The spoon in Q’s hand almost misses his mouth. 

They banter and tease, chop and stir and fry, letting the flavours of the meat deepen and the conversation steep, enhanced by the occasional brush of bodies, full of intent and heat. The strangeness of the situation was not enough to dampen the simple joy of company and food, and Q was not yet ready to look the gift horse in the mouth. He’s enjoying himself far too much, listening to Bond recount a story with half dreamy eyes and watching Bond laugh at a quip he makes. He doesn’t stop to examine the blooming warmth in his chest just yet.

Somewhere in the middle of their dinner preparation, Q had sneakily dabbed a little of the marinade on Bond’s nose before proceeding to almost break a rib cackling at his crossed eyed attempt to lick it off. Bond, in retaliation, had pinned Q to the counter, placing spots of sauce on his cheeks as he gasps for surrender.

There is a moment of silence as they catch their breath, a companionable quiet as the stove bubbles beside them. There’s the barest distance between them now, close enough for the faintest freckles on Bond's nose to be seen, close enough for Bond's breath to lightly fog over his glasses.

There is the suspended moment of inevitability, and then Bond leans in with unbearable slowness to kiss the sauce sweetly off his cheeks, ending with a slow, lingering one on the upturn tip of his nose. His forehead bumps against Q’s glasses and warm palms slide down and under his shirt, stroking hot skin. The moment is undeniably perfect.

Bond pulls away, tongue snaking out to licks his lips in a move that Q mimics. He follows the pink tip that peeks out, eyes darting down to the stretch of his neck as Q swallows. Up close, the hunger in Bond’s eyes is a physical blow - overwhelming and inescapable, and the thrill of it all flushes his skin alive. Q wriggles his hips, heart skipping in his throat at the way Bond tightens his grip almost imperceptibly. Between the hard edge of the marble top and the solid build of Bond before him, he’s well and truly trapped.

He slides a hand up Bond’s bicep, eyes flitting anywhere but at the glacial blue unraveling him, marveling at the shifting, flexing slide of sinew and flesh as Bond leans in, a controlled sinking to his elbows, jungle cat agility and elegance. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth, eyes heavy and laden with intent. Q is looking now, he is, because the soft pressure of not quite kisses are more of a question than anything else. Bond, the heartbreaking bastard, is asking for his permission to proceed and, oh, if it didn’t make Q want to cry.

Q lets out a slow breath he did not realise he was holding, closing his eyes and tilting his chin, homely scent of spice and musk filling his nose as he finally slots their mouths together to take what he needs.

There’s too much and not enough. The rushing of blood curling in his ears, the way their hands roam familiar terrains without restraint, without boundaries, the crisp of fitted designer shirt bunching between his fingers, and the devastating way Bond tastes on his tongue. 

Q pulls apart first, and gets the pleasure of seeing Bond chase after his lips. “Wouldn’t want to let dinner burn,” he says, dancing out from between the gaps of Bond’s arms, lingering with a touch and a coy tipping of chin, basking in the attention of being desired.

Bond does not protest, choosing instead to lean heavily on the counter, adjusting his jeans into a more comfortable position, looking for all the world like a predator lazily eyeing his prey. The prickling of danger over his skin makes Q shiver and grin, excitement bubbling through his veins.

He plates dinner while Bond disappears to find a decent bottle of wine to pair with. They eat dinner across each other on the dining table, large enough to fit eight, but narrow enough to twine their ankles around the other’s in a display of casual comfort, the lack of expectations easing the atmosphere between them as they ate.

Q moans at the first bite, tender chicken almost melting in his mouth. The couscous provided a lovely change in texture, and the sauce was simply divine. His serving is slightly larger than Bond’s; Bond had taken a look at Q’s plating and wordlessly heaped another scoop of everything in his plate with the airs of a fussy mother, quietly demanding that he eat. “This is delicious,” he says with his mouth full, the company and food lulling him into momentarily forgetting his table manners. “I haven’t eaten like this for a while.” He spears another chunk of chicken with a grateful sigh.

Bond takes a more sedated bite. “You don’t look like you’ve eaten anything for a long time,” he says critically, putting down his knife and reaching over almost absent mindedly to circle Q’s wrist. “I have the urge to keep you prisoner here and feed you until you stop looking starved.”

Q takes a sip of his wine, not very much in a hurry to pull his wrist from Bond’s grasp. He lets Bond stroke the pulse, happily indulging in the swipe of calloused fingers on delicate skin. “That could possibly quite the most ardent declaration of protectiveness I’ve ever heard, or a plot for a very bad horror movie.” Bond snickers, pulling his hand back and raising it in mock surrender, picking up his utensils to eat again. Q feels a loss at the lack of contact and took another sip of wine to stop himself from reaching out. The wine goes down smoothly, and it was evident Bond didn’t skimp on that too. “Good lord, do you really eat and drink so lavishly everyday?”

“Depends on who I’m having over,” Bond teases. “It’s not everyday I have the luck of being in the company of a good looking, witty, charming…”

“Go on,” Q laughs, hooking his ankles around Bond’s and sliding it up and down. “I think I’m starting to enjoy your company too.”

“Well, I never said I was describing you.” Bond grins cheekily, popping a spoonful of greens in his mouth, smiling around the bite at Q’s scandalised look. 

“I’m hurt! And here I thought you would wine and dine me before whisking me off for a clandestine night of romance.”

Bond returns Q’s touch under the table, strong thighs and bare feet securely between Q’s, almost like a deceptive taming of a tiger on a leash, and chuckles. “My God, you sound like a blurb at the back of a book on teenage romance.” He waves a fork in the air. “Another great book from the Times bestseller, Q: a thousand and one nights of pleasure, or something equally cringe worthy.”

Q pretends to think about the comment seriously. “Now that’s a great alternative career choice. ‘Making women all over the world swoon as passion light their loins!’ Oh, good lord, I should stop.” He’s almost polished off half his portion already, and the food settles pleasantly in his stomach. “You know, the only time I had chicken this good was in Japan, of all places.” He pushes a brussel sprout aside, folding his lettuce with his fork to reduce its size.

“So the nerd does come out of his cave after all,” Bond mocks gently.

“Once every full moon,” Q replies. “Anyway, I still remember the street it was on - full of drunks and shady men - but the inside was surprisingly neat and tidy, and the lady owning the place was a force of nature; taking orders, cooking, chatting with the customers, and all without breaking a sweat! And the yakitori chicken, oh my, it blurs the line between food and sex…”

They talk, about food and countries and cars, about books and history and computers. Bond is smart and well read in a quiet, understated way, the push-pull of their words easy and natural, Q had never enjoyed a conversation more. He wants to believe that Bond was after an ulterior motive here; a seduction of sorts to trick Q into bed or to breed false hope in him. But instincts, experience, and top notch research had informed him that if Bond wanted something, Q would be on his back, gasping and wobbly legged, before he knows what hit him. No, there was no sense of rushing towards a goal and Bond seems more than content keeping the evening at the pace it is. Q could feel the last of his reserves melt away by the time they carried their plates over to the sink.

“Leave it,” Bond tells him, catching his wrist and pulling back with a little shake of his head as Q goes for the sponge and dishwashing liquid. “I can wash it in the morning.”

“You slob,” Q tease, but he oblige, going with Bond into the living room, another glass of wine in hand. The alcohol has settled into his veins, lending a slight blur to the edges of the world, not enough to be worrying, but enough to make him loose limbed and giggly.

“I’ll have you know that no one has ever accused me of that before.” Bond tries to subtly fold the clothes draped over the sofa.

“Oh! But it’s not your fault. I’ve come over on such a short notice, it would have been hard to tidy up for that.” Q drifts over to the turntable, looking at Bond for permission before flicking through the records at Bond’s expansive nod. “If it makes you feel better, I’m a slob myself. I get so absorbed in coding sometimes I forget to clear out the laundry basket for days.” He selects an Ella Fitzgerald recording, slipping the vinyl on and placing the needle on. 

Bond hums as music filled the room, patting the space beside him to let Q collapse on and snuggle in. Well fed and warm, Q is malleable and cuddly, a cat full of porridge, and he cushions his head on Bond’s lap, closing his eyes and purring as fingers comb through his hair. In the background, Ella sings about unrequited love and passion found.

Bond is a very tactile creature, Q realised, and he shows his protectiveness and affections with little touches - soft petting strokes in his hair, little dips into the hollow of his throat - always asking instead of outright taking, coiled strength and power curled beneath his fingertips. Q’s eyelids are almost slipping shut when Bond speaks up again. “A vice!” he says softly, reluctant to fully wake Q. “I wonder what other bad habits you have other than being so very lazy?” He brush his mouth on Q’s forehead to show he means no insult, the stubble on his chin tickling slightly.

“Hmm?” Q had almost forgot what they were talking about. “What makes you think I’ll just tell you all my secrets, Mr Bond? You’ll only use them for bad.” He shifts, setting down his glass of wine on the coffee table, peering up at Bond, unable to resist smiling at the fond look he sees.  

“Oh I’m sure I’ll think of a few ways to make use of them,” Bond murmurs, brushing the long fringe away from Q’s forehead and unhooking his glasses from his ears to place by the wine glass. Q gaze indolently back, eyes larger and softer without his spectacles. “If only to make you happy.”

Q squirms a little, trying to find a comfortable spot. He catches Bond’s hand as it grasp the strands of his hair loosely, pulling it down to his lip to kiss messily at the fingers. “I guess I’ll make an exception then.” He dips the tip of the forefinger in his mouth, nibbling gently at the pad. “Just for you.”

Bond makes a soft sound, using his other hand to trace Q’s cheekbones and chin, barely touching, static from his skin making the fine hair on Q’s cheek rise. “I would be honoured.”

“Well,” Q retracts the digit, tapping it thoughtfully on his lip. “I’m a sucker for sweet things. Fudge, chocolates, caramels, anything that could make your teeth rot.” He moves on to the middle finger, biting lightly to make his point, then kissing the sting away. “I like a little background chatter when I work. It helps me concentrate. It’s either that or nothing at all. I usually have a loop of coffee shop white noise in the background, but they do get repetitive. I’m not keen on going out too much, so usually I’ll spend long hours in silence alone.” He rubs the thumb across his bottom lip, making it catch and pull. Bond listens with almost frightening intensity above him, as though he was set on keeping his promise. “I like my tea just the way I make it: Earl Grey steeped in hot water for exactly five minutes, one sugar and a dash of milk. I actually weigh out the portion of tea leaves too, but don’t tell anyone that.” He blush, cursing himself for sounding silly. “And that’s all. I think.”

He waits in silence, heart thumping in apprehension. Quirks or not, it would be so easy for Bond to laugh callously, or look at him funny in the way that is unpleasantly familiar.

But all Bond does is remove his fingers, replacing them with his mouth on Q’s lips, meeting in a rather clumsy upside-down kiss, “I know I incur the wrath of a vengeful beast when I say this,” Bond says, other hand sweeping up to massage Q’s temples. “But that is adorable. You are adorable.”

“I am most emphatically  _ not _ .” Q scowls up at Bond, batting his nose like Wimby or Cat would. Bond arches an eyebrow, catching his hand and lacing their fingers together to kiss the knuckles. 

“But you are,” Bond insists, mirth evident in his voice. “Enough to rival as thousand kitten videos.”

Q frowns, wriggling a little to find a more comfortable spot. “I’ve never understood the appeal of kitten videos. They tumble and wobble their way through things, but that is about all there is to it.”

“They’re cute,” Bond corrects. “Just like you.”

Q sighs. “I see you’re adamant on continuing on this subject.” He blinks, trying to focus on the overhead lights, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. “How do I get you to stop?”

Bond release their hands, going back to softly pulling through the tangles of his hair. “Only when you admit defeat and agree that you are, indeed, adorable.”

“This conversation is going nowhere,” Q grumps. “Therefore I refuse to have any part in it.” He folds his arms in mock obstinance, dissolving into giggles when Bond pouts at him.

They lounge on the sofa, lapsing into silence, soaking in the other’s presence as the turntable spins scratchily, crackling a little as the next song stutters to life. This one was as mournful as before, full of broken hearts and age-old yearning. Q ache to listen to it, even though he did not understand the theme of it, but he wonders if it would leave him with the same copper burnt taste and melancholic tiredness in him.

“Bond?” He asks softly, tiredness muddling his mind. He searched to grasp on the thread of thought he’s trying to pursue, the strong fingers massaging his scalp making it hard to think. “May I ask something? About,” he hesitates, wondering if he should let curiosity take the lead. But there was no better time than now, with the cosiness of their places on the sofa and the happiness from the excellent evening still resonating in him. He pushed forward. “About your scars?”

Q could feel Bond tense, every muscle going rigid, the hand buried in his hair clutching hard enough to hurt for a second. 

Then, just like that, the pressure was gone. Bond returns to his caressing, movements mechanical, more of going through the motions than anything else. Q waits with his heart in his throat, already half regretting his actions.

Finally, Bond spoke. “I’ve done too many things in the past that aren’t bear repeating. And I know you; I know you’ve probably did your research on me, and I know what the files you’ve dug up said.” He smiles wanly, laugh lines and wrinkles cutting deep into the grooves of his face. He suddenly looks so very tired. “Whatever you’ve read is true, and no, I’d rather not speak of it, please.”

Q nods, pushing himself up and twisting to press thigh to thigh, chest to chest, arms hooking around bent neck. The position is awkward and offers little support, but he stays, ignoring the imminent ache of his leg to look uncertainly at the still slightly blurry face of Bond.  He leans forward slowly, tenderly, to touch his forehead to forehead, closing his eyes with a sigh as Bond circles his waist, palms making long, soothing strokes up and down his torso. They share breaths for a minute, sweet tannin from the wine tickling his nose as they exchanged eskimo kisses.

“I’m sorry,” Q murmurs, bowing his head in reticience, trying to convey multiple meanings in a phrase.  _ I’m sorry I asked. I’m sorry you had to go through what you went through. I’m sorry about the betrayal, the pain. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _

Bond huffs a weak laugh. “I don’t hold grudges,” he says quietly, tilting his chin forward to capture Q’s mouth with his own. Q lets Bond take the lead, mind delightfully short-circuiting for a moment as they kissed. 

“Stay?” Bond asks when they part, the intimacy flowing organic and unrestrained between them. Q knows that the matter isn’t over, but if Bond choose not to deal with his demons tonight, then he’d gladly give him all the space that he needs. The question is just that; a question, but Q could hear the hesitancy behind it, and know Bond is wondering if he had scared Q away.

“Yes,” Q answers simply, ducking down to nuzzle at the bowl of his collarbone. He let his tongue peek out, tasting sweat and skin, sucking dark marks into the hollow of his throat, emboldened by Bond’s moans.

They stumble onto Bond’s lavish bed after that, with Q pausing long enough to shoot off a text to Eve, telling her to feed his cats and informing her of his current location, before he switch his mobile off. He’s certain of the deluge of texts and missed calls that will hit him in the morning but for now, he couldn’t care less.

They neck like teenagers, half out of their clothings, groping hands and messy kisses everywhere, content with not doing anything more. Q pushed what seems like a mountain of pillow out of the way, stacking them up into fort like structures before Bond, impatient with the need to touch, pulls him down with a playful growl, pinning him down on the mattress and nuzzling behind his ear.

The bed is sinfully soft and comfortable, the sheets cool and silken against his heated skin. It seem to stretch for miles, blankets engulfing him like a cream puff when he tries to duck down under the covers with Bond, the both of them laughing like idiots as they fumble around in the semi-darkness. They exhaust themselves like this, talking about nothing in particular, drifting wherever the conversations take them, until their heartbeats slow and their breathing deepen.

He falls asleep like this, once fatigue took its toll, curled tight in a cocoon of coziness and sugar spun dreams, anchored by Bond’s solid weight by his side. 

***

Q wakes slowly, a luxury he rarely affords himself. The soft glow of sunlight filtering through thick curtains skims over his eyelids and he extremely comfortable bed has him convinced for a moment that he was still asleep, until he tries to make a move off the bed. There was a grunt behind him and the arms bracketing his body tightens, pulling him snug against intimately familiar warmth. After a few tugs, he gives up, collapsing back and keeping his eyes close, grinning with silly giddiness at the incredible night he had.

He press back, soaking in the warmth Bond seems to be throwing out like a radiator, tracing the faded scars of long ago wounds at the back of his hands, taking care to kiss each and every one with a reverence. He understands the importance of keeping your personal history instead of wiping it from memory, and he respects Bond's wish to keep it away from him for just a little longer.

Finally, his bladder protesting, Q managed to wriggle out from under Bond's weight, pressing a kiss to his closed lids as he pads off, grinning as Bond huffs, still very much asleep, and grabs a pillow to curl up with.

He considers for a second making breakfast, then gives it up when he realised he didn’t know what Bond would want, let alone where he keeps all the necessary ingredients. He busies himself making coffee instead, brightening in surprise when he finds a box of Earl Grey at the top cabinet. It was still in its plastic wrap, clear of dust, and Q vaguely remembers Bond placing a box of the same tea on the conveyer belt during checkout at the cashier yesterday, and an even more distant, post-orgasmic haze of babbling about the merits of tea. He feels himself tingles from inside out, watching in pleasure as the hot water turn golden as the tea bag soaks. 

Strong arms circle his waist, and Q almost drops the mug. He makes to turn, trying to face his assailant, freezing on the spot as a cold nose digs into the space behind his ears.

“You’re perfect.” Bond groans, nuzzling into the spot, the bulge of his morning erection thinly clothed and rubbing with the perfect amount of friction. Q melts into the touch, pushing back and grinding, grinning as Bond rumbles his approval. He feels a stab of disappointment as Bond pull away, the slight darkness clearing when Bond kissed the nape of his neck, moving around him to collect a cup of coffee.

They spent breakfast like this, making a mountain of toast and eating them in shared silence on the couch, occasionally feeding the other bites as they listen to the city come alive outside. It’s surprisingly domestic, and Q could almost pretend they were lovers, enjoying their morning of reprieve. He had to swallow an extra large gulp of tea at that impossible prospect.

Afterwards, cheeks stinging a little from the cold, Q stands at the exact position as he was yesterday evening. It’s a novel experience, Q lingering outside the front door of Bond’s house, last night’s crumpled shirt on himself and the residual glittering happiness quietly coursing through his veins. He had decided to leave before noon, convincing himself that he did not need to trespass Bond’s welcome and that he still has too much work to complete. 

There is an awkwardness there that was not present before, and Q wonders if Bond always feels like this after their meetings, or if routine had tore it to shreds. He chews on his lips as Bond leans against the doorway, on the threshold and yet uninvited, wondering what he should say before he goes.

He’s about to just turn and leave before the shame compounds and leave him paralysed when Bond, with an indescribable look on his face, leans in, hooking an arm around his neck, kissing him so soundly that Q feels as if he’d floated away. It seems like he might not be the only one feeling missed after all.

“Thank you for the wonderful time,” Bond murmurs, and Q stammers his reply, concentrating on not tripping over his steps as he walks away without looking back. He gives in to his compulsion when he reaches the end of the street, and the flicker of curtains and the wide smile at the windows has him smiling for the rest of the day.

Q wonders, in a recurring thought that would occupy his mind for a long time to come, how long this all would last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where I'm heading and I'm not very impressed by this chapter but it does, strangely, enchant me, so there's that. Don't worry, it's not all going to be unicorn sparkles and angel farts, though.
> 
> The titles is taken from this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fzZ4l2H5-w , which is also incidentally the song in The History Boys, which is how much of a nerd I am.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are love!


	4. Prototypes and Probabilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting together is as easy and as hard as you think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. I have the physical inability to write angst here. I am truly sorry. Here's so fluff to make up for it.

He's not yet reached the door when the solenoid locks clunks and unlocks, muffled click and the sight of peeling paint making Bond grin as he draws near. He had only vaguely stated when he would come, and then went out of his way to take a detour to get a few items on the way. Seems like someone was expecting him after all; and quite eagerly too.

It swings open to reveal a lovely sight: Q, standing framed by the doorway, arms crossed and finger tapping against his forearms, annoyed and mussed. “You’re late,” he says, even as a smile splits his face, radiant and just a little shy. Cat and Wimby peek from between his legs, twin looks of curiosity on their face and in their tails, meowing in recognition at him.

It's a routine of sorts, one alluded and implied and hinted at, solidifying heavy and large when Q crosses over from a client to a tentative something-more. When asked, he would answer that there was no precise moment when he realises it had become so; rather, it was steady, terrifying, and as inevitable as melting ice cream on a warm summer’s day. He comes for visits and warns Q beforehand, holds his breath when he is invited in, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because Q is enigmatic and aloof and primly delicate, wholly transparent yet dizzyingly elusive, and Bond is painfully intrigued. He only fears rejection and the inescapable nature of reality he experienced through tales of others in his profession.

But Q only moves in closer, unknowing and perhaps uncaring of the “must”s and “should”s of conventions, talks and laughs and shares with Bond like he cares, and Bond's smiles are a little looser, a little more freely given now. He recalls the lonely nights and clawing demons, drowning himself in emptiness, and holds them up to the light to compare with these new memories. He is still afraid, but he thinks he might be surer now.

Bond saunters near, and Q’s smile widens, until he’s beaming when Bond continues forward, barely stopping until they were almost chest to chest. He tilts his neck up, all the better to see Bond with, endearing and coquettish in equal measures as it reveals a tantalising slice of skin under the humongous sweater threatening to engulf him.

Bond graces him with a kiss, because he can never resist a pout like that, lingering long enough to stoke the heat in his chest. Q clutch at his lapels, drawing him in, closer and closer. He could feel the iciness of his hands even through the thick linen. “I come with offerings,” he murmurs, rustling the plastic bag that hangs by his fingertips. Q draws back with a dreamy look, peering interestedly into the bag.

“I suppose you better come in then,” Q hooks his finger through the handle, relieving Bond of his load, ushering him in with shooing motions. “Although I'll have you warned that if what you bought is unsatisfactory, I’ll have to kick you out.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Bond closes the door behind him, snapping the locks back into place, trailing behind Q as he rustles through the bag with glee. The living room is the same as he had last saw it, the same as the countless other times he had been here. Organised chaos, with the occasional whimsy of personal effects, almost as intimate to him as his own flat. Wimby winds around his legs, his headbutting hard and insistent, and Cat follows behind sedately, purring his welcome.

Eve is there at the dining table, slightly frazzled with the pile of essays teethering by her side. She looks up at their arrival, smiling her enigmatic little smile, impeccably dressed in a silk blouse and lilac trousers for a lounge-about at her neighbour’s house. “Bond,” she greets, pulling back her hair in a messy ponytail.

“Moneypenny.” He had met Eve a few weeks prior, and was suitably cowed by her. He admires the way she holds herself, all slightly sharp wit and danger and enigma, a lady and a killer, radiating unassuming under her genuine friendliness. He hopes she considers him a worthy adversary and friend as much as he does her.

Eve holds her look for a little while longer, the both of them engaging in their ritual of giving each other the once over, before she breaks out into a grin. “Fancy seeing you here.” She waggles her eyebrows, looking very louche herself.

Bond laughs, crowding around Q as he unpacks the groceries, taking the opportunity to catch one of Q’s hands and warm it with his own. The blunt digit rolling between his fingers heat under his touch, and Q throws him a grateful smile. “I could say the same to you. How goes the work?” He gestures vaguely to the papers on the table.

She makes a face. “Utterly horrid. I’m beginning to understand why my teachers had thermos flasks of vodka on their desks now.” She sets her pen aside, cracking her knuckles and stretching with a satisfied sigh. “Lucky for me, I’ve just got myself a tall glass of water delivered to me at just the right time.” She winks at Q, slipping off the stool to watch the procession of foodstuff appearing on the countertop.

Q swats her with a cucumber. “Oi, get your own.” Eve sticks her tongue out at him, dancing around the next hit gracefully, slotting herself next to Q and bouncing on her toes like a particularly excitable child. Her eyes brighten as Q empties the rest of the content of the bag. “Oh Bond, you absolute darling. You bought it!” She snatches the yoghurt from under Q, waltzing off to find a spoon before Q could slap her wrist.

They reconvene in the living room, Eve already holding the remote hostage, settling on the couch for Q’s mandated rest time. “It makes me sound like a kindergartener,” Q once said sulkily as Bond bodily manhandles him away from the motherboard he had been prodding for five hours straight. “I can manage perfectly fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“No you can’t.” Eve refutes, sitting next to Q, both her and Bond effectively caging him in. “I once saw you pee in the cats’ litter box because you you didn’t want to break the Zone to relieve yourself.”

Q had blushed bright red and made a vaguely dissenting noise, but had otherwise conceded defeat.

“What I don’t get,” he begins as Eve flips to a channel where some gaudy television drama is blaring. “Is why they have to dramatise everything to an absurd degree.” He jerks his chin at the television screen, recently tinkered with and upgraded to boost sound and picture quality. He sets a wad of tissue almost fussily on his lap, tearing open the packet of crisps and absently feeding the first piece to Bond. “I can’t imagine trying not to laugh while filming all of this.”

Eve leans over with an exaggerated glare, opening her mouth to argue. Q crams a crisp in it before she can make a sound.

Bond throws his head back in laughter as Eve sprays crumbs over them, sputtering, shuffling over to the far end of the sofa to watch them fight it out. Eve grabs a cushion, hitting Q with all her might, fury raining down on him without mercy. Q had, interestingly, chose not to retaliate, which is in fact a wise move, but had chosen to stare at Bond with an awe he reserves for computers and perfectly cooked dinner. His eyes travels up the length of Bond’s throat, holding his gaze for a beat, then two, before he drops his head, grinning.

“Never do that again!” Eve says, furious, even as she watches the interactions with sly eyes. She doesn’t mention it, though, but her smug grin is almost unbearable to face. Bond choose not to reply, but he does sits a little closer to Q, their thighs flushed against the other, when things calmed down.

They make it through the hour with minimal bickering, mostly with Q and Eve fighting over the remote before settling on a horror movie they were entranced by. “A horror movie on afternoon telly,” Q scoffs, even as he tightens his grip on Bond’s arm with a flinch. He curls in closer instinctively when Bond wraps a possessive arm around his waist, peeking from beneath his fringe as the music reaching a crescendo. “Nobody gets scared in broad daylight.” He squeaks and ducks as the demon’s face flash on the screen.

“You’re a ninny.” Eve says, peering over the pillow held protectively over her face. “An absolute coward.”

She leaves soon after, gathering the essays with a resigned sigh. She pulls Q in with a kiss on his cheeks, and does the same for Bond. “You two behave now,” she says, motherly, tossing her hair back and walking towards the door. “I won’t be around in the evening if you call. I’ve got a hot date tonight, and I must say, my dear, he’s even hotter than yours.” Nodding at Bond, she cackles as Q rolls his eyes, whirling off to her apartment. The room seems smaller and quieter after she leaves, yet at the same time, more intimate, full of possibilities.

“So, darling,” Bond crowds in on Q, capturing his lips in a hard kiss that leaves them gasping. “What shall we do next?”

Q looks up at him thoughtfully, all dilated pupils and soft pants. For a moment, Bond was so certain that it would be something concerning bedroom activities, and he almost dragged them there before the words leave Q’s mouth.

“Nothing.” Q says, finally. “Absolutely nothing.” He plants a chaste kiss on Bond’s lips, rubbing his cheek against the sharp stubble like a giant cat. “I have work and so do you. And I know how you hate sex before that.”

Bond was surprised that Q remembered, or even cared. He likes to think that his job is a touchy subject and would be best forgotten if they tried to act like it doesn’t exist. He hates bringing it up; it always fills him with dread, with the feeling that the relationship is doomed before it has even started. But for Q to go beyond what he has to to accommodate him is new.  

“You don’t,” he hesitates, fingers almost unconsciously worrying the hair at the nape of Q’s neck. “Mind?” Ducking back down, he plants another kiss on Q’s lips, pushing them backwards, unable to deny Q what he needs out of considerate for him. The job is important, but not as important as Q. “I could-” He smooths his hand down Q’s back, down his spine, landing questioningly on the dip of his hipbones.

“No, no,” Q insists, eyes clear and smile soothing. “We can, later, maybe, if you want.” He is uncertain too, and uncertain’s good, because at they’re both floundering in unknown depths here. “Do you? Would you?”

“Yes,” Bond laughs, relieved. “Yes, of course.” He rocks them gently, swaying side to side in a slow dance, their faces so close he can memorise the colour of Q’s eyes. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

Q smiles, the sweet one where he squints and the lilt of his eyes bends prettily in the crease of his face. “I won’t ask you to stop what you’re doing for us, because it’s not in my place to do so. I hope this,” He gestures down at their joined bodies, slowly spinning in a circle on the rug of his living room, “Doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t have to change anything.”

“It won’t,” Bond promises, giving in to the silly urge to lift Q’s hand in the air and twirl him around. Q laughs, but complies, albeit a little clumsily. “I don’t regret this,” he confesses when they return to their slow swaying again. “You are the best thing that has happened to me in a long time.”

Q peers up, smiling his dopey smile, fingers drawing naughts and crosses across his heart. “The feeling’s mutual.” He stretches up for a kiss, and Bond gives it freely. When they break apart, Q tucks his head under Bond’s chin, breathing in the scent shallowly. “Very very mutual.”

They let the dancing taper off, ambling slower in circles until they stop, ducking in now and then for little kisses, reluctant to pull apart. Q breaks away first, when the alarm on his phone went off, untangling himself with a cross sigh as he goes over to turn it off. Bond smiles when Q absentmindedly brushes his fingertips across bruised lips, turning to the kitchen to dig out his ball of yarn.

He had taken to M’s suggestion, much to his and her surprise, and the cathartic twist, thread, loop had turned out to be the best decision of his life. Alec laughed at it for a solid ten minutes, gasping and rolling on the floor in exaggerated dramatics, but shut his mouth and looked on jealously at the dusty blue sweater he knitted and wore. After another hour of bargaining, he agreed to knit Alec one, if only he stop giggling whenever he picks up the needles and stop trying to steal all of his knitted items. He had to present Alec with a pair of crocheted socks and shoulder holster before the bastard kept to his side of the bargain.

Cat perks up when he spies the dangling string, watching it hover with intense stares as Wimby fights for spot next to him. Rolling them each a ball of knotted yarn, Bond sends them chasing after it, hoping that it would leave him alone until it was time to leave.

They work in silence, each absorbed in their activities, languishing in the undemanding companion of the other. It’s a change to have these comfortable moments, without the constant pressure of needing to present.

Q always does his work standing up, over a long worktable with his various projects scattered over it. He has his heavily modified ipod in the docket, playing white noise while he hums and wriggles his hips to unrecognisable strains of music.

He coos at the cats when they inevitably come sniffing around, staying perfectly still in a bent position as they crouch on his back and peer inquisitively at his work, shooting Bond a grateful smile when he rescues Q from a visit to the chiropractor. It’s endearing and adorable, and Bond could help but smile fondly down at the blanket that he had ambitiously tried to knit, even when Q holds up a dangerously sharp blade to saw off a piece of wood.

Bond leaves at a quarter to five, purling the yarn and slinging his duffel over the shoulders as Q continues to tinker away. He wraps an arm around the startlingly thin waist, tutting quietly in disapproval at Q’s waifishness. Leaning in close, he lifts the too long strands of hair at the back of Q’s neck, pressing a kiss to the nape, breathing in the clean smell of the man.

“See you later, darling,” he murmurs, getting a fleeting peck on his lips as Q twists to face him. Q doesn’t seem to be all there, squinting and reciting the complex series of numbers on the piece of paper before him. He does, however, calls out a “Stay safe,” as Bond leaves, and the resultant glow of the words were enough to get him through the reporting at M’s and the hour with his client.

 

*

 

He’s finally let off at half past seven, the evening light stretched long behind him like a shadow as he drives himself home with the adrenalin rush of domination leaving his mind sharp and the world fuzzy. He’s surprised when he manages to get to Q’s place on autopilot

The first thing that assaults him when he reaches the apartment is the smell of burning, reminding him unpleasantly of the time Alec had burned down his flat while experimenting with fire. His mind immediately leaps to conclusions - Q in the flat, burning, danger - and he let the duffel drop against the door, never mind his mildly aching muscles from work, already striding towards the living room as the bag lands with a muffled thump, heart filling with mounting panic.

“Q?!” He shouts, dread burning through him. He’s almost ready to find a roaring blaze, or the sofa being engulfed in fire, Q trapped in the corner, except -

Except Q is standing in the smouldering remains of twisted metal, fire extinguisher in hand, cackling like a maniac. Cat and Wimby are perched on the television, looking on with great interest, apparently quite used to such matters occurring on a daily basis.

When Q turns to him, Bond could see that in addition to the slightly demented smile gracing his face, he had a few black streaks smeared on his cheeks and his hair, usually lush and wavy, were slightly crispy at the ends.

“I did it!” He exclaimed proudly, brandishing an innocuous looking fountain pen. “I’ve managed to fit in a poison dart _and_ a miniature flamethrower!” He gave the pen a complicated twist with his wrist, grinning in delight as flames roared out from the end. “Granted, it can’t actually be used as a pen and the blast radius needs to be controlled but look!” He waves it happily at Bond.

“That is ingenious,” Bond says honestly, dizzy with relief, pulling Q in fiercely for a kiss, just to reassure himself of the truth. Q’s lips tasted of soot as he returns the kiss enthusiastically, giggling a little at Bond’s ferocity. “I can’t ever imagine when it’ll come in handy, but it looks absolutely wonderful.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Q says, placing the pen gently into a small box, surveying the wreckage with an air of satisfaction. “Fitting two different equipment in was the most difficult issue, but I managed to do a bit of calculation and widen the ink cartridge to fit it in. Of course, weight and accuracy would have been compromised but…”

Bond listens to Q prattle on, pride and happiness swelling in his chest at Q’s glee. He catches Q’s hands as they went to clear up the mess, kissing the soot fingers as Q quietens, blinding smile still lighting up his face. “Leave it,” he suggests. “Take a shower.”

“Slob,” Q says affectionately; his favourite thing to call Bond. “Later. If I don’t clear this up the cat will try to either play with it or eat it, and it won’t end well for anyone.”

“Let me help then,” Bond offers, scooping up the gently smoking metal and depositing it in the waste bin. “The sooner I get you undressed, the better.”

“Ah, a romantic!” Q teased, collecting the tools scattered across the table. “And they said chivalry is dead.”

“I try,” Bond replies dryly. “Although if I had to bring back flowers, it would be catnip for the cats rather than roses.”

“I always knew you were after me for my cats,” Q grins impishly. “But I hope to change your mind after a little liaison in the bathroom.” He waggles his brows, breaking into laughter when Bond growls playfully and smeared black streaks on his forehead.

“Well then I look forward to having my mind changed.” Bond closed the space between them, hovering over Q’s lips until he hears the hitch in his breath, before pulling away at the last second, using Q’s closeness to smear a stripe down his nose.

“Mutiny!” Q gasps, lunging forward to poke at Bond, only to grasp at thin air as Bond slips smoothly past. He glares at his cats, who had migrated to the sofa and were snoozing peacefully. “Attack him.” He points at Bond, letting out an exaggerated sigh as they stretch and blink lazily in return.

“Sorry, darling, but I’ve bought over their loyalty.” Bond sweeps the last of the wreckage into the trash, dusting off his fingers and turning to gather Q in his arms. “You’re helpless now. Who’s going to come to your rescue?”

“Mmm,I don’t think I mind much.” Q tips his chin up, revealing the pale column on his neck, and Bond instinctively runs his hand through slightly singed hair to tug lightly. Q’s eyes flare open at the sting, and Bond backs away, rubbing soothing circles to his scalp in apology. “Sorry, sorry, it take some time to get out of the headspace.”

“No, no, it’s good.” Q insists, running his hand down a muscular arm, lifting Bond’s hand to thread through his hair again. “Guilty pleasure,” he admits, humming in pleasure as Bond tightens his grip to expose more skin. With permission granted, Bond sucks his brand into Q’s skin, making his way up to the angular bone of the chin with nipping bites, claiming Q’s mouth in a possessive kiss, licking in as Q melts in his grip.

“I think,” Bond murmurs, kneading and pulling at a very pliant Q, nosing his ear and worrying the lobe gently. “That a good boy like you deserve kisses.”

“Oh yes,” Q says, a little dazedly. “All the smooches. I gladly accept my fate.”

“Hmm,” Bond purrs, tilting Q backwards without warning, until he is almost, almost falling,  chuckling at the little squeak of surprise. Q’s grip is bruisingly tight, but they relax somewhat with Bond cradling him safe and sound in his arms. “I wonder if I should reward him now?”

Q’s mouth form an ‘O’ at the angle, clearly feeling the edge of freefalling yet reassuringly secure in Bond’s arms. “Oh yes please.” He quirks an eyebrow. “See, I asked nicely. And I think the miniature flamethrower toward warrants a little reward, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget?” Bond pretends to think about it, grinning as Q’s lips twist into a petulant pout. “Oh, all right. But,” he pulls them both upright, pushing away with a pat to Q’s sinfully soft arse. “Only after you shower.”

Q groans, crossing his arms with a mock anger, only deigning to slump off to the washroom when Bond acquiescence with a lingering kiss, wandering off to his bedroom to dig out a clean change of clothes.

He finds Bond on the closed toilet lid, arms propped on his knees, gaze following every movement hungrily as Q undressed. He tries his best to do it slow, make a strip tease out of it, desire building hot and heavy as Bond watches with predatory want. He’s done stepping out of his pants, plain blue cotton, nothing fancy to speak of, when Bond pulls him close by the waist, nuzzling with deep affection into the hard lines of his belly.

“You’re not joining me?” Q gasps, gesturing at his unfairly clothed body. Bond seemed to have an obsession at charting out the planes of his whip thin self while remaining very much un-naked. It’s something Q finds enjoyable too, especially the way he feels when Bond worships every perceived flaw, every tiny blemish. He musses Bond’s hair, making little tufts out of the short strands, letting his skin warm and the sweet squirming dance beneath his skin as Bond mouth his prayers into it. He curls his toes when Bond lick down the line of his hipbones, coming dangerously close to his half hard cock, pushing his hands down to tug insistently at the sweater.

“Come on, off with it.” He demands, pulling it up and over Bond’s head despite his protests. “I know how you hate feeling sticky and all after work. You need a shower too.”

“Not everyone is as special as you, my dear,” Bond jokes, even as he strips efficiently, nudging Q into the tight space of his shower. “You’re the only one nice enough to let me wash myself off.”

“Spoilt,” Q says fondly, flinching a little as Bond twists the knob on, cold spray slowly warming up. He lets Bond pour a glob of shampoo into his hair, closing his eyes at the slow massage of it into his scalp. “I should feel so lucky,” he says dreamily, hands sliding across wet muscles, dragging his knuckles past Bond’s sweet spots.

“And I too,” Bond chuckles, cupping Q’s face for a kiss, smearing shampoo across cheekbones as he tries to pour into Q’s mouth words he cannot verbalise. “God, you’re beautiful. Everything I ever wanted. My clever Q.”

“You say the sweetest thing,” Q lets his head hang low, blush spreading blotchily down his chest. He glares at the offending flush, trying to think of the best way to reciprocate. “You know I do? Appreciate you. Love you, I mean.”

Bond curves over him, shielding him from the spray, water droplets clinging to the curve of his smile. “And I you.” Bond drags him in for another kiss, and Q gladly follows, letting the harsh gasps and whimpers excite him.

They rut almost lazily for as long as they could stand, making it into an exercise of seeing how close they could fit, slicking themselves up with soapy hands, before, behind, between, above, below. It's easier now that Q is more vocal, more ready to demand what he wants, any residual shyness burnt away by routine worn visits, letting Bond have the pleasure of going rougher, being unrestrained. Q pushes; Bond deepens the pressure, capturing Q’s cry in his mouth, tasting the coffee-and-tender-sweet taste left behind on his tongue, grasping slippery in his palms as much as he can to pump and twist until Q leans shivery and jelly limbed against the wall.

“That,” he gasps, not quite ready to let them go. “Is how evenings should go.” The previous ache and cold metal concentration of work is starting to dim, just a little, from the edge of his mind, and Bond luxuriates in the high of being here, with Q, closer than close, “love you,” still echoing in his ears.

Q swipes the hair plastered against his forehead, sloe eyed and squinting with contentment, nodding in agreement. “Dinner?” He suggests. “Then bed. Otherwise I’ll cave in to the temptation of giving the flamethrower another go.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep you occupied.” Bond twists the shower off, stretching to pull the towel off the rack and dumping it unceremoniously on Q’s head. “Takeout?” He asks, starting to scrub at the wet hair vigorously.

“Chinese.” Q confirms. “There’s a new place down the street I’d like to try out.” He wrestles the towel away from his head, hair crackling with static, flapping it open to wrap around his waist. Pulling a clean one off the rack, he drapes it across Bond’s shoulders, bending to brush his lips across collarbones, inadvertently zapping Bond in the process.

“Sound perfect,” Bond flinch in surprise, settling Q dabs away the sting apologetically, grinning at the other man’s excited smile as he darts out to dress. Next to inventing, eating is Q’s favourite hobby, a surprising fact seeing as he looks dangerously thin most of the time.

He’s about to follow Q out the bathroom, towel hanging low from his hips, when Q skids to a stop, turning to look back with worried eyes.

“What I said, just now, in the shower,” he starts slowly, fingers reaching up to curl his hair behind an ear - a nervous gesture. “I meant all of it.”

And it would be so easy to dismiss the statement, to pretend to misunderstand and tease Q about it, but there are so many things he could truly be sure of in his life, and when the opportunity presents itself, he has learnt not to let it go.

So instead he says, “I know” and “I meant it too”, watching Q light up with the same incandescent embers in his heart, pushing aside his fears, his incapabilities to make space for the memories. Q’s mouth pulls up into a beam, and Bond’s heart melts.

There are things too complicated for them not to address and there are matters too personal to hold them too close. Bond will share his, one day, and Q will reveal his too, but for now, they are ready to love and lose and gain it all.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand it's done! Not exactly a satisfying ending but this was more of a self indulgent thing than anything else. Thank you for sticking with me through this!
> 
> References made in this chapter:  
> (the reference to Q using the cats' litter box for things other than its intended purpose is based on a post on tumblr, which unfortunately, I could not locate)  
> "To His Mistress Going to Bed" - John Donne
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


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